
"l PUT MV ARMS AROUND llEK.'' [See Filffe 4:10. 



A. N isr E 



^ J^oDel 



BY 

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON 



ILLUSTRATED BY C. S. REINHART 



NEW YORK 
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 






^^.« (y 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by 

Harper & Brothers, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 

All rights reserved. 

r GIFT 

WINFRED OVERHOLSER 
DEC. 13, 1951 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



" I PUT MY Arms round her" 

" The Girl paused and reflected a Moment". To face 

''As she bent over the old Volujvle" 

Lois Hinsdale 

"And it ended in their racing down to- 
gether" 

" Alarmed, he bent over her'* 

"She sat there high in the Air while the 
Steamer backed out from the Piers" , . 

"You KNOW I TOO must GO FAR AWAY" 

TiTA listening 

"Dear me! what can be done with such a 
YOUNG Savage ?" 

In the Woods 

"He took his best Coat from his lean Va- 
lise" 

"He was merely noting the Effect" 

"She bathed her flushed Cheeks" 

"She started slightly" 

" She buried her Face tremblingly in her 
Han^ds" 

"Anne drew a Chair to the Bedside, and 

SAT DOWN WITH HER BaCK TO THE MOON- 
LIGHT" 



18 
43 
63 

84 
104 

120 
133 
136 

153 
186 

308 
236 
234 
354 

363 



384 



iv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"While her Maid was coiling her fair 

Hair" To face Page 308 

" It is, or should be, oyer there" " 328 

''Miss Lois SIGHED deeply" " 350 

"July walked in front, with his Gun over 

HIS Shoulder" " 374 

"She tried to rise, but he held her Arm 

WITH BOTH Hands" " 386 

"Weak, holding on by the Trees" " 392 

"Saw her slowly ascend the House Steps" " 408 

" Anne, still as a Statue" " 432 

"He rose, and took her cold Hands in his" " 460 

" He obeyed without Comment" " 498 

"The second Boat, which was farther up 

THE Lake, contained a Man" " 514 

"He reached the Windows, and peeped 

THROUGH a Crack in the old Blind".... *" 530 



A.NIsrB. 



Chapter I. 

*'Heaveu lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth who daily farther from the East 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day." 

— WORDSWOUTH. 

"It is but little- we can do for each other. We accompany the youth 
with sympathy and manifold old sayings of the wise to the gate of the 
arena, but it is certain that not by strength of ours, or by the old say- 
ings, but only on strength of his own, unknown to us or to any, he must 
stand or fall." — Emerson. 

"Does it look well, father ?" 

"Wliat,cliild?" 

"Does this look well?" 

William 'Douglas stopped playing for a moment, and 
turned his head toward the speaker, who, standing on a 
ladder, bent herself to one side, in order that he might 
see the wreath of evergreen, studded with cones, which 
she had hung on the wall over one of the small arched 
windows. 

" It is too compact, Anne, too heavy. There should be 
sprays falling from it here and there, like a real vine. 
The greenery, dear, should be either growing naturally 
upward or twining; large branches standing in the cor- 
ners like trees, or climbing vines. Stars, stiff circles, and 
set shapes should be avoided. That wreath looks as 
though it had been planed by a carpenter." 

1 



3 ANNE. 

"Miss Lois made it." 

"All," said William Douglas, something wliicli made 
you think of a smile, although no smile Avas there, pass- 
ing over his face, "it looks like her work; it will last a 
long time. And there will be no need to remove it for 
Ash- Wednesday, Anne ; there is nothing joyous about it." 

" I did not notice that it was ugly," said the girl, try- 
ing in her bent posture to look at the wreath, and bring- 
ing one eye and a portion of anxious forehead to bear 
upon it. 

" That is because Miss Lois made it," replied William 
Douglas, returning to his music. 

Anne, standing straight again, surveyed the garland 
in silence. Then she changed its position once or twice, 
studying the effect. Her figure, poised on the round of the 
ladder, high in the air, was, although unsupported, firm. 
With her arms raised above her head in a position which 
few women could have endured for more than a moment, 
she appeared as unconcerned, and strong, and sure of her 
footing, as though she had been standing on the floor. 
There was vigor about her and elasticity, combined un- 
expectedly with the soft curves and dimj^les of a child. 
Viewed from the floor, this was a young Diana, or a 
Greek maiden, as we imagine Greek maidens to have been. 
The rounded arms, visible through the close sleeves of 
the dark woollen dress, the finely moulded wrists below 
the heavy wreath, the lithe, natural waist, all belonged 
to a young goddess. But when Anne Douglas came 
down from her height, and turned toward you, the idea 
vanished. Here was no goddess, no Greek ; only an 
American girl, with a skin like a peach. Anne Doug- 
las's eyes were violet-blue, wide open, and frank. She 
had not yet learned that there was any reason why she 
should not look at everything with the calm directness of 
childhood. Equally like a child was the unconsciousness 
of her mouth, but the full lips were exquisitely curved. 
Her brown hair was braided in a heavy knot at the back 
of her head , but little rings and roughened curly ends 
stood up round her forehead and on her temples, as 
chough defying restraint. This unwritten face, with its 



ANNE. 3 

direct gaze, so far neutralized the effect of the Diana-like 
form that the girl missed beauty on both sides. The 
usual ideal of pretty, slender, unformed maidenhood 
Was not realized, and yet Anne Douglas's face was more 
like what is called a baby face than that of any other girl 
on the island. The adjective generally applied to her 
was "big." This big, soft-cheeked girl now stood irreso- 
lutely looking at the condemned wreath. 

The sun was setting, and poured a flood of clear yel- 
low light through the little west windows ; the man at 
the organ was playing a sober, steadfast German choral, 
without exultation, yet full of a resolute purpose which 
defied even death and the grave. Out through the east- 
ern windows stretched the frozen straits, the snow-cov- 
ered islands, and below rang out the bugle. "It will be 
dark in a few moments," said Anne to herself; "I will 
doit." 

She moved the ladder across to the chancel, mounted 
to its toi3 again, and placed the wreath directly over the 
altar, connecting it deftly with the numerous long lines 
of delicate wreathing woven in thread-like green lace- 
work which hung there, waiting for their key-stone — a 
place of honor which the condemned wreath was to fill. 
It now crowned the whole. The little house of God Avas 
but an upper chamber, roughly finished and barren ; its 
only treasure was a small organ, a gift from a father 
whose daughter, a stranger from the South, had died 
upon the island, requesting that her memorial might be 
music rather than a cold stone. Vv^illiam Douglas had 
superintended the unpacking and placing of this gift, and 
loved it almost as though it had been his own child. In- 
deed, it was a child, a musical child — one who comjDre- 
hended his varying moods when no one else did, not even 
Anne. 

"It makes no difference now," said Anne, aloud, car- 
rying the ladder toward the door; " it is done and ended. 
Here is the ladder, Jones, and please keep up the fires all 
night, unless you wish to see us frozen stiff to-morrow." 

A man in common soldier's uniform touched his cap 
and took the ladder. Anne went back. ' ' Now for one 



4 ANNE. 

final look, father," she said, "and then we must go home; 
the children will be waiting-." 

William Douglas played a few more soft strains, and 
turned round. "Well, child," he said, stroking his thin 
gray heard with an irresolute motion habitual with him, 
and looking at the small perspective of the chapel with 
critical gaze, ' ' so you have put Miss Lois's wreath up 
there ?" 

' ' Yes ; it is the only thing she had time to make, and 
she took so much pains with it I could not bear to have 
her disappointed. It will not be much noticed." 

"Yes, it will." 

" I am sorry, then ; but it can not be moved. And to 
tell the truth, father, although. I suppose you will laugh 
at me, J think it looks well." 

' ' It looks better than anything else in the room, and 
crowns the whole," said Douglas, rising and standing by 
his daughter's side. ' ' It was a stroke of genius to place 
it there, Anne." 

"Was it ?" said the girl, her face flushing with plea- 
sure. "But I was thinking only of Miss Lois." 

"I am afraid you were," said Douglas, with his shad- 
owy smile. 

The rough walls and beams of the chapel were deco- 
rated with fine spray-like lines of evergreen, all pointing 
toward the chancel; there was not a solid spot upon 
which the eye could rest, no upright branches in the cor- 
ners, no massed bunches over the windows, no stars of 
Bethlehem, anchors, or nondescript Greek letters; the 
whole chapel was simply outlined in light feathery lines 
of green, which reached the chancel, entered it, played 
about its walls, and finally came together under the one 
massive wreath whose even circle and thick foliage held 
them all firmly in place, and ended their wanderings in 
a restful quiet strength. While the two stood gazing, 
the lemon-colored light faded, and almost immediately 
it was night ; the red glow shining out under the doors 
of the large stoves alone illuminated the room, which 
grew into a shadowy place, the aromatic fragrance of 
the evergreens filling the warm air pungently, more 



ANNE. 5 

perceptible, as fragrance always is, in the darkness. 
William Douglas turned to the organ again, and began 
plaj^ng the music of an old vigil. 

"The bugle sounded long ago, father," said Anne, 
"It is quite dark now, and very cold; I know by the 
crackling noise the men's feet make across the parade- 
ground." 

But the father played on. ' ' Come here, daughter, " he 
said ; ' ' listen to this waiting, watching, praying music. 
Do you not see the old monks in the cloisters telling the 
hours through the long night, waiting for the dawn, 
the dawn of Christmas ? Look round you ; see this dim 
chapel, the air filled with fragrance like incense. These 
far-off chords, now ; might they not be the angels, sing- 
ing over the parapet of heaven ?" 

Anne stood by her father's side, and listened. ' ' Yes," 
she said, ' ' I can imagine it. And yet I could imagine it 
a great deal better if I did not know where every bench 
was, and every darn in the chancel cari3et, and every 
mended pane in the windows. I am sorry I am so dull, 
father." 

"Not dull, but unawakened." 

"And when shall I waken ?" pursued the girl, accus- 
tomed to carrying on long conversations with this dream- 
ing father, whom she loved devotedly. 

' ' God knows ! May He be with you at your waken- 
ing !" 

"I would rather have you, father; that is, if it is not 
wicked to say so. But I am very often wicked, I think," 
she added, remorsefully. 

William Douglas smiled, closed the organ, and, throw- 
ing his arm round his tall young daughter, walked with 
her down the aisle toward the door. 

"But you have forgotten your cloak," said Anne, run- 
ning back to get it. She clasped it carefully round hig 
throat, drew the peaked hood over his head, and fastened 
it with straps of deer's hide. Her own fur cloak and cap 
were already on, and thus enveloped, the two descended 
the dark stairs, crossed the inner parade-ground, passed 
tinder the iron arch, and made their way down the long 



6 ANNE. 

sloping patli, cut in the cliff -side, which led from the lit* 
tie fcrt on the height to the village below. The ther- 
mometer outside the commandant's door showed a tem- 
perature several degrees below zero; the dry old snow 
that covered the ground was hardened into ice on the top, 
so that boys walked on its criist above the fences. Over- 
head the stars glittered keenly, like the sharp edges of 
Damascus blades, and the white expanse of the ice-fields 
below gave out a strange pallid light which was neither 
like that of sun nor of moon, of dawn nor of twilight. The 
little village showed but few signs of life as they turned 
into its main street ; the piers w^ere sheets of ice. 

Nothing wintered there ; the summer fleets were laid 
up in the rivers farther south, where the large towns 
stood on the lower lakes. The shutters of the few shops 
had been tightly closed at sunset, when all the inhabited 
houses were tightly closed also; inside there were cur- 
tains, sometimes a double set, woollen cloth, blankets, or 
skins, according to the vv^ealth of the occupants. Thus 
housed, with great fires burning in their dark stoves, and 
one small lamp, the store-keepers waited for custom until 
nine o'clock, after which time hardly any one stirred 
abroad, unless it was some warm-blooded youtli, who de- 
fied the elements with the only power which can make 
us forget them. 

At times, early in the evening, the door of one of these 
shops opened, and a figure entered through a narrow 
crack ; for no islander opened a door widely — it was giv- 
ing too much advantage to the foe of his life, the wea- 
ther. This figure, enveloped in furs or a blanket, came 
toward the stove and warmed its hands with deliberation, 
the merchant meanwhile remaining calmly seated ; then, 
after some moments, it threw back its hood, and disclosed 
the face of perhaps an Indian, perhaps a French fisher- 
man, perhaps an Irish soldier from the barracks. The 
customer now mentioned his errand, and the merchant, 
rising in his turn, stretched himself like a shaggy dog 
loath to leave the fire, took his little lamp, and prepared 
to go in quest of the article desired, which lay, perhaps, 
beyond the circle of heat, somewhere in the outer dark 



ANNE. 7 

ness of the dim interior. It was an understood rule that 
no one should ask for nails or any kind of ironware in 
the evening : it was labor enough for the merchant to find 
and handle his lighter goods when the cold was so intense. 
There was not much bargaining in the winter; people 
kept jtheir breath in their mouths. The merchants could 
have made money if they had had more customers or 
more energy; as it was, however, the small population 
and the cold kept them lethargically honest. 

Anne and her f ath er turned northward. The southern 
half of the little village had two streets, one behind the 
other, and both' were clogged and overshadowed by the 
irregular old buildings of the once-powerful fur company. 
These ancient frames, empty and desolate, rose above the 
low cottages of the islanders, sometimes three and four 
stories in height, with the old pulleys and hoisting ap- 
paratus still in place under their peaked roofs, like gallows 
ready for the old traders to hang themselves upon, if 
they came back and saw the degeneracy of the f urless 
times. No one used these warehouses now, no one prop- 
ped them up, no one pulled them down ; there they stood, 
closed and empty, their owners being but so many dis- 
couraged bones under the sod ; for the Company had dis- 
solved to the four winds of heaven, leaving only far-off 
doubtful and quarrelling heirs. The little island could 
not have the buildings ; neither could it pull them down. 
They were dogs in the manger, thereforo, if the people 
had looked upon them with progressive American eyes ; 
but they did not. They were not progressive ; they were 
hardly American. If they had any glory, it was of 
that very past, the days when those buildings were full 
of life. There was scarcely a family on the island that 
did not cherish its tradition of the merry fur-trading 
times, when "grandfather" was a factor, a superintend- 
ent, a clerk, a hunter ; even a voyageur had his impor- 
tance, now that there were no more voyageurs. Those 
were gay days, they said ; they should never look upon 
their like again: unless, indeed, the past should come 
back — a possibility which did not seem so unlikely on 
the island as it does elsewhere, since the people were 



8 ANNK 

plainly retrograding, and wlio knows but that they might 
some time even catch up with the past ? 

North of the piers there was only one street, which ran 
along the water's edge. On the land side first came the 
fort garden, where successive companies of soldiers had 
vainly fought the climate in an agricultural way, red- 
coats of England and blue-coats of the United States, with 
much the same results of partially ripened vegetables, 
nipped fruits, and pallid flowers ; for the island summer 
was beautiful, but too short for lusciousness. Hardy 
plants grew well, but there was always a persistent pre- 
ference for those that were not hardy — like delicate beau- 
ties who are loved and cherished tenderly, while the 
strong brown maids go by unnoticed. The officers' wives 
made catsup of the green tomatoes, and loved their weak- 
ling flowers for far-away home's sake ; and as the Indians 
brought in canoe-loads of fine full-jacketed potatoes from 
their little farms on the mainland, the officers could af- 
ford to let the soldiers do fancy-work in the government 
fields if it pleased the exiled ladies. Beyond the army 
garden was the old Agency house. The Agency itself 
had long been removed farther westward, following the 
retreating, dwindling tribes of the red men farther toward 
the Rocky Mountains ; but the old house remained. On 
its door a brass plate was still fixed, bearing the words, 
"United States Agency." But it was now the home of 
a plain, unimportant citizen, William Douglas. 

Anne ran up the path toward the front door, thinking 
of the children and the supper. She climbed the uneven 
snow-covered steps, turned the latch, and entered the 
dark hall. There was a line of light under the left-hand 
door, and taking off her fur-lined overshoes, she went in. 
The room was large ; its three windows were protected by 
shutters, and thick curtains of red hue, faded but cheery ; 
a great fire of logs was burning on the hearth, lighting 
up every corner with its flame and glow, and making the 
poor furniture splendid. In its radiance the curtains 
were damask, the old carpet a Persian-hued luxury, and 
the preparations for cooking an Arabian Nights' dis- 
play. Three little boys ran forward to meet their sister ; 



ANNE. Q 

a girl who was basking in the glow of the flame looked 
up languidly. They were odd children, with black eyes, 
coal-black hair, dark skins, and bold eagle outlines. The 
eldest, the girl, was small — a strange little creature, with 
braids of black hair hanging down behind almost to her 
ankles, half-closed black eyes, little hands and feet, a low 
soft voice, and the grace of a young panther. The boys 
were larger, handsome little fellows of wild aspect. In 
fact, all four were of mixed blood, their mother having 
been a beautiful French quarter-breed, and their father — 
William Douglas. 

' ' Annet, Annet, can't we have fried potatoes for sup- 
per, and bacon ?" 

"Annet, Annet, can't we have coffee?" 

" It is a biting night, isn't it ?" said Tita, coming to her 
sister's side and stroking her cold hands gently. "I 
really think, Annet, that you ought to have something 
substantielle. You see, I think of you ; whereas those 
howling piggish bears think only of themselves." 

All this she delivered in a soft, even voice, while Anne 
removed the remainder of her wrappings. 

"I have thought of something better still," said Will- 
iam Douglas's eldest daughter, kissing her little sister 
fondly, and then stepiDing out of the last covering, and 
lifting the heap from the floor — "batter cakes !" 

The boys gave a shout of delight, and danced up and 
down on the hearth ; Tita went back to her corner and 
sat down, clasping her little brown hands round hei 
ankles, like the embalmed monkeys of the Nile. Her 
corner was made by an old secretary and the side of the 
great chimney; this space she had lined and carpeted 
with furs, and here she sat curled up with her book or 
her bead-work all through the long winter, refusing to 
leave the house unless absolutely ordered out by Anne, 
who filled the place of mother to these motherless little 
ones. Tita was well satisfied with the prospect of batter 
cakes; she would probably eat two if Anne browned 
them well, and they were light and tender. But as for 
those boys, those wolf-dogs, those beasts, they would 
probably swallow dozens. "If you come any nearer, 



10 ANNE. 

Louis, I shall lay open the side of your head," she an^ 
nounced, gently, as the boys danced too near her hermit- 
age; they, accustomed alike to her decisions and her 
words, danced farther away without any discussion of 
the subject. Tita was an excellent playmate sometimes ; 
her little moccasined feet, and long braids streaming be- 
hind, formed the most exciting feature of their summer 
races ; her blue cloth skirt up in the tops of the tallest 
trees, the provocative element in their summer climbing. 
She was a pallid little creature, while they were brown; 
small, while they were large ; but she domineered over 
them like a king, and wreaked a whole vocabulary of 
roughest fisherman's terms upon them when they dis- 
l)leased hei*. One awful vengeance she reserved as a last 
resort : when they had been unbearably troublesome she 
stole into their room at night in her little white night- 
gown, v/ith all her long thick black hair loose, combed 
over her face, and hanging down round her nearly to 
her feet. This was a ghostly visitation which the boys 
could not endure, for she left a lamp in the hall outside, 
so that they could dimly see her, and then she stood and 
swayed toward them slowly, backward and forward, with- 
out a sound, all the time coming nearer and nearer, until 
they shrieked aloud in terror, and Anne, hurrying to the 
rescue, found only three frightened little fellows cower- 
ing together in their broad bed, and the hairy ghost gone. 

" How can you do such things, Tita?" she said. 

" It is the only way by which I can keep the little dev- 
ils in order," replied Tita. 

" Do not use such words, dear." 

"Mother did," said the younger sister, in her soft calm 
voice. 

This was true, and Tita knew that Anne never im- 
pugned the memory of that mother. 

"Who volunteers to help ?" said Anne, lighting a can- 
dle in an iron candlestick, and opening a door. 

"I," said Louis. 

"I, "said Gabriel. 

"Me too," said little Andre. 

They followed her, hopping along together, with arms 



ANNE. 11 

interlinked, while her candle shed a light on the bare 
walls and floors of the rooms through which they passed, 
a series of little apartments, empty and desolate, at the 
end of which was the kitchen, inhabited in the daytime 
by an Irishwoman, a soldier's wife, who came in the 
morning before breakfast, and went home at dusk, the 
only servant Vv^illiam Douglas's fast-thinning imrse could 
afford. Anne might have had her kitchen nearer what 
Miss Lois called the "keeping-room" ; any one of tlie five 
in the series would have answered the purpose as well as 
the one she had chosen. But she had a dream of fur- 
nishing them all some day according to a plan of her 
own, and it would have troubled her greatly to have used 
her proposed china closet, pantry, store-room, preserve 
closet, or fruit-room for culinary purposes. How often 
had she gone over the whole in her mind, settling the 
position of every shelf, and deliberating over the pattern 
of the cups ! The Irishwoman had left some gleams of 
fire on the hearth, and the boys immediately set them- 
selves to work burying potatoes in the ashes, with the hot 
hearth-stone beneath. ' ' For of course you are going to 
cook ni the sitting-room, Annet," they said. " We made 
all ready for you there; and, besides, this fire is out." 

"You could easily have kept it u]3,"said the sister, 
smiling. "However, as it is Christmas-eve, I will let 
you have your way." 

The boys alertly loaded themselves with the articles 
she gave them, and went hopping back ii\to the sitting- 
room. They scorned to walk on Christmas-eve; the 
thing was to hop, and yet carry every dish steadily. 
They arranged the table, still in a sort of dancing step, 
and sang together in their shrill childish voices a tune of 
their own, without any words but ' ' Ho ! ho ! ho !" Tita, 
in her corner, kept watch over the proceedings, and in- 
haled the aroma of the coffee with indolent anticipation. 
The tin pot stood on the hearth near her, surrounded by 
coals ; it was a battered old coffee-pot, grimy as a camp- 
kettle, but dear to all the household, and their principal 
comforter when the weather was bitter, provisions scarce, 
or the boys especially troublesome. For the boys said 



J 2 ANNE. 

they did not enjoy being especially troublesome; they 
could not help it any more than they could help having 
the measles or the whooping-cough. They needed cof- 
fee, therefore, for the conflict, when they felt it coming 
on, as much as any of the household. 

Poor Anne's cooking utensils were few and old ; it was 
hard to make batter cakes over an open fire without the 
proper hanging griddle. But she attempted it, neverthe- 
less, and at length, with scarlet cheeks, placed a plateful 
of them, brown, light, and smoking, upon the table. 
"Now, Louis, run out for the potatoes; and, Tita, call 
father." 

This one thing Tita would do; she aspired to be her 
father's favorite. She went out with her noiseless step, 
and presently returned leading in the tall, bent, gray- 
haired father, her small brown hand holding his tightly, 
her dark eyes fixed upon him with a persistent steadiness, 
as if determined to isolate all his attention upon herself. 
William Douglas was never thorouglily at ease with his 
youngest daughter ; she had this habit of watching him 
silently, which made him uncomfortable. The boys he 
understood, and made allowances for their wildness ; 
but this girl, with her soft still ways, perplexed and 
troubled him. She seemed to embody, as it were, his 
own mistakes, and he never looked at her little pale face 
and diminutive figure without a vague feeling that she 
was a spirit dwelling on earth in elfish form, with a half- 
developed contradictory nature, to remind him of his past 
weakness. Standing at the head of the table, tall and 
straight, with her nobly poised head and clear Saxon 
eyes, his other daughter awaited him, and met his gaze 
with a bright smile ; he always came back to her with a 
sense of comfort. But Tita jealously brought his atten- 
tion to herself again by pulling his hand, and leading 
him to his chair, taking her own place close beside him. 
He was a tall man, and her head did not reach his elbow, 
but she ruled him. The father now asked a blessing; he 
always hesitated on his way through it, once or twice, as 
though he had forgotten what to say, but took up the 
thread again after an instant's pause, and went on. 



ANNE. 13 

When he came to the end, and said "Amen," he always 
sat down with a relieved air. If you had asked him 
what he had said, he could not have told you unless you 
started him at the beginning, when the old formula 
would have rolled off his lips in the same vague, mechan- 
ical way. The meal proceeded in comparative quiet ; the 
boys no longer hummed and shuffled their feet; they 
were engaged with the cakes. Tita refrained from re- 
marks save once, when Gabriel having dropped buttered 
crumbs upon her dress, she succinctly threatened him 
with dismemberment. Douglas gazed at her helplessly, 
and sighed, 

"She w^ill be a woman soon," he said to his elder 
daughter, when, an hour or two later, she joined him in 
his own apartment, and drew from its hiding-place her 
large sewing-basket, filled with Christmas i^resents. 

"Oh no, father, she is but a child," answered Anne, 
cheerfully. " As she grows older these little faults will 
vanish." 

"How old is she ?" said Douglas. 

"Just thirteen." 

The father played a bar of Mendelssohn noiselessly on 
the arm of his chair with his long thin fingers ; he was 
thinking that he had married Tita's mother when she was 
hardly three years older. Anne was absorbed in her 
presents. 

"See, father, will not this be nice for Andre? And 
this for Gabriel ? And I have made such a pretty doll 
for Tita." 

"Will she care for it, dear ?" 

"Of course she W'ill. Did I not play with my own 
dear doll until I was fourteen years old — yes, almost fif° 
teen ?" said the girl, with* a little laugh and blush. 

"And you are now — " 

''^ I am over sixteen." 

"A great age," said Douglas, smoothing her thick 
brown hair fondly, as she sat near him, bending over hei? 
sewing. 

The younger children were asleep up stau's in two old 
bedrooms with rattling dormer windows, and the fathei 



14 ANNE. 

and elder daughter were in a small room opposite the 
sitting-room, called the study, although nothing was 
ever studied there, save the dreams of his own life, by 
the vague, irresolute, imaginative soul that dwelt there- 
in, in a thin body of its own, much the worse for wear. 
William Douglas was a New England man of the brood- 
ing type, sent by force of circumstances into the ranks 
of United States army surgeons. He had married 
Anne's mother, who had passionately loved him, against 
the wishes of her family, and had brought the disin- 
herited young bride out to this far Western island, 
where she had died, happy to the last — one of those 
rare natures to whom love is all in all, and the whole 
world well lost for its dear and holy sake. Grief over 
her death brought out all at once the latent doubts, hesi- 
tations, and strange perplexities of William Douglas's 
peculiar mind — perplexities which might have lain dor- 
mant in a happier life. He resigned his position as army 
surgeon, and refused even practice in the village. Med- 
ical science was not exact, he said ; there was much i)re- 
tense and i)resumption in it ; he would no longer counte- 
nance deception, or play a part. He was then made 
postmaster, and dealt out letters through some seasons, 
until at last his mistakes roused the attention of the new 
officers at the fort ; for the villagers, good, easy-tempered 
people, would never have comi^lained of such trifles as a 
forgotten mail-bag or two under the counter. Super- 
seded, he then attended nominally to the highways ; but 
as the military authorities had for years done all that was 
to be done on the smooth roads, three in number, includ- 
ing the steep fort hill, the position was a sinecure, and 
the superintendent took long walks across the island, 
studying the flora of the Northern woods, watching the 
birds, noticing the clouds and the winds, staying out late 
to experiment with the flash of the two light-houses from 
their different distances, and then coming home to his 
lonely house, where the baby Anne was tenderly cared 
for by Miss Lois Hinsdale, who superintended the nurse 
all day, watched her charge to bed, and then came over 
early in the morning before she woke. Miss Lois adored 



ANNE. 15 

the baby ; and she watched the lonely father from a dis- 
tance, imagining all his sadness. It was the poetry of 
her life. Who, therefore, can picture her feelings when, 
at the end of three years, it was suddenly brought to her 
knowledge that Douglas was soon to marry again, and 
that his choice was Angelique Lafontaine, a French 
quarter-breed girl ! 

Angelique was amiable, and good in her way ; she was 
also very beautiful. But Miss Lois could have borne it 
better if she had been homely. The New England wo- 
man wept bitter, bitter tears that night. A god had come 
down and showed himself flesh ; an ideal was shattered. 
How long had she dwelt upon the beautiful love of Dr. 
Douglas and his young wife, taking it as a perfect exam- 
ple of rare, sweet happiness which she herself had missed, 
of which she herself was not vv-orthy ! How many times 
had she gone up to the little burial-ground on the height, 
and laid flov/ers from her garden on the mound, whose 
stone bore only the inscription, " Alida, wife of William 
Douglas, aged twenty-two years.'' Miss Lois had wished 
to have a text engraved under this brief line, and a date ; 
but Dr. Douglas gently refused a text, and regarding a 
date he said: "Time is nothing. Those who love her 
will remember the date, and strangers need not know. 
But I should like the chance visitor to note that slie was 
only twenty-two, and, as he stands there, think of her 
with kindly regret, as we all think of the early dead, 
though why, Miss Lois, why, I can not tell, since in go- 
ing hence early surely the dead lose nothing, for God 
would not allow any injustice, I think — yes, I have about 
decided in my own mind that He does not allow it." 

Miss Lois, startled, looked at him questioningly. He 
was then a man of thirty-four, tall, slight, still notice- 
able for the peculiar refined delicacy of face and manner 
which had first won the interest of sweet, impulsive Alida 
Clanssen. 

' ' I trust, doctor, that you accept the doctrines of Holy 
Scripture on all such subjects, " said Miss Lois. Then she 
felt immediately that she should have said ' ' of the 
Church" ; for she was a comparatively new Episcopalian. 



16 ANNE. 

having been trained a New England Presbyterian of the 
severest hue. 

Dr, Douglas came back to practical life again in the 
troubled gaze of the New England woman's eyes. ' ' Miss 
Lois," he said, turning the subject, "Alida loved a'nd 
trusted you ; will you sometimes think of her little 
daughter ?" 

And then Miss Lois, the quick tears coming, forgot all 
about orthodoxy, gladly promised to watch over the baby, 
and kept her word. ^ But now her life was shaken, and 
all her romantic beliefs disturbed and shattered, by this 
overwhelming intelligence. She was wdldly, furiously 
jealous, wildly, furiously angry — jealous for Alida'ssake, 
for the baby's, for her own. It is easy to be humble when 
a greater is preferred; but when an inferior is lifted high 
above our heads, how can we bear it ? And Miss Lois 
was most jealous of all for Douglas himself— that such a 
man should so stoop. She hardly knew herself that 
night as she harshly pulled down the curtains, pushed a 
stool half across the room, slammed the door, and purpose- 
ly knocked over the fire-irons. Lois Hinsdale had never 
since her birth given way to rage before (nor known the 
solace of it), and she was now forty-one years old. All 
her life afterward she remembered that night as some- 
thing akin to a witch's revel on the Brocken, a horrible 
wild reign of passion which she trembled to recall, and 
for which she did penance many times in tears. "It 
shows the devil there is in us all," she said to herself, and 
she never passed the fire-irons for a long time afterward 
without an unpleasant consciousness. 

The limited circle of island society suggested that Miss 
Lois had been hunting the loon with a hand-net — a North- 
ern way of phrasing the wearing of the willow ; but if 
the New England woman loved William Douglas, she 
was not conscious of it, but merged the feeling in her love 
for his child, and for the memory of Alida. True, she 
was seven years older than he was : women of forty-one 
can answer w^iether that makes any difference. 

On a brilliant, sparkling, clear June morning William 
Douglas went down to the little Eoman Catholic church 



AIsNE. 17 

and married tlie French girl. As he had resigned his 
position in the army some time before, and as there was 
a new set of officers at the fort, his marriage made little 
impression there save on the mind of the chaplain, who 
had loved him well when he was surgeon of the post, and 
had played many a game of chess with him. The whole 
French population of the island, however, came to the 
marriage. That was expected. But what was not ex- 
pected was the presence there of Miss Lois Hinsdale, sit- 
ting severely rigid in the first pew, accompanied by the 
doctor's child — a healthy, blue-eyed little girl, who kiss- 
ed her new mamma obediently, and thought her very 
sweet and pretty — a belief which remained with her al- 
ways, the careless, indolent, easy-tempered, beautiful 
young second wife having died when her step-daughter 
was eleven years old, leaving four little ones, who, ac- 
cording to a common freak of nature, were more Indian 
than their mother. The Douglas family grew poorer ev- 
ery year ; but as every one was poor there, poverty was 
resi^ectable ; and as all poverty is comparative, they al- 
ways esteemed themselves comfortable. For they had 
the old Agency for a home, and it was in some respects 
the most dignified residence on the island ; and they had 
the remains of the furniture which the young surgeon 
had brought with him from the East when his Alida was 
a bride, and that was better than most of the furniture in 
use in the village. The little stone fort on the height 
was, of course, the castle of the town, and its command- 
ant by courtesy the leader of society ; but the infantry 
officers who succeeded each other at this distant Northern 
post brought little with them, camping out, as it were, in 
their low-ceilinged quarters, knowing that another sea- 
son might see them far away. The Agency, therefore, 
preserved an air of dignity still, although its roof leaked, 
its shutters rattled, although its plastering was gone here 
and there, and its floors were uneven and decayed. Two 
of its massive outside chimneys, clamped to the sides of 
the house, were half down, looking like broken columns, 
monuments of the past ; but there were a number left. 
The Agency originally had bristled with chimneys, which 



18 ANNE. 

gave, on a small scale, a castellated air to its rambling 
outline. 

Dr. Douglas's study was old, crowded, and comfortable : 
that is, comfortable to those who have consciousness in 
their finger-ends, and no uncertainty as to their feet ; the 
great army of blunderers and stumblers, the handle-ev- 
ery thing, knock-over-everything people, who cut a broad 
swath through the smaller furniture of a room whenever 
they move, would have been trc?ubled and troublesome 
there. The boys were never admitted; but Tita, Avho 
stepped like a little cat, and Anne, who had a deft direct 
aim in all her motions, were often present. The comfort 
of the place was due to Anne ; she shook out and arranged 
the curtains, darned the old carpet, re-covered the lounge, 
polished the andirons, and did all without disturbing the 
birds' wings, the shells, the arrow-heads, the skins, dried 
plants, wampum, nets, bits of rock, half -finished drawings, 
maps, books, and papers, which were scattered about, or 
suspended from the walls. William Douglas, knowing 
something of everything, was exact in nothing : now he 
stuffed birds, now he read Greek, now he botanized, now 
he played on the flute, now he went about in all weathers 
chipping the rocks with ardent zeal, now he smoked in 
his room all day without a word or a look for anybody. 
He sketched well, but seldom finished a picture ; he went 
out hunting when the larder was empty, and forgot what 
he went for ; he had a delicate mechanical skill, and made 
some curious bits of intricate work, but he never mended 
the hinges of the shutters, or repaired a single article 
which was in daily use in his household. 

By the careful attention of Anne he was present in the 
fort chapel every Sunday morning, and, once there, he 
played the organ with delight, and brought exquisite 
harmonies from its little pipes ; but Anne stood there be- 
side him all the time, found the places, and kept him 
down to the work, borrowing his watch beforehand in 
order to touch him when the voluntary was too long, on 
the chords between the hymn verses too beautiful and in- 
tricate. Those were the days when the old buckram- 
backed rhymed versions of the psalms were steadfastly 




THE GIRL PAUSED AND REFLECTED A MOMENT. 



ANNE. 19 

given out at every service, and Anne's rich voice sang, 
with earnest fervor, words like these : 

" His liberal favors he extends, 
To some he gives, to others lends ; 
Yet when his charity impairs, 

• He saves by prudence in affairs," 

while her father followed them with harmony fit for an- 
gels. Douglas taught his daughter music in the best sense 
of the phrase ; she read notes accurately, and knew no- 
thing of inferior composers, the only change from the 
higher courts of melody being some of the old French 
chansons of the voyageurs, which still lingered on the 
island, echoes of the past. She could not touch the ivory 
keys with any skill, her hands were too much busied with 
other work; but she practiced her singing lessons as she 
went about the house — music which would have seemed 
to the world of New York as old-fashioned as Chaucer. 

The fire of logs blazed on the hearth, the father sat 
looking at his daughter, who was sewing swiftly, her 
thoughts fixed upon her work. The clock struck eleven. 

"It is late, Anne." 

"Yes, father, but I must finish. I have so little time 
during the day." 

"My good child," said Douglas, slowly and fondly. 

Anne looked up ; his eyes were dim with tears. 

"I have done nothing for you, dear," he said, as she 
dropped her work and knelt by his side. ' ' I have kept 
you selfishly with me here, and made you a slave to those 
children." 

" My own brothers and my own little sister, father." 

' ' Do you feel so, Anne ? Then may God bless you for 
it! But I should not have kept you here." 

" Tliis is our home, papa." 

"A poor one." 

" Is it ? It never seemed so to me." 

"That is because you have known nothing better." 

' ' But I like it, papa, just as it is. I have always been 
happy here." 

" Eeally happy, Anne ?" 

The girl paused, and reflected a moment. ^* Yes," she 



20 ANNE. 

said, looking into tlie deptlis of the fire, with a smile, "I 
am happy all the time. I am never anything but happy. " 

William Douglas looked at her. The fire-light shone 
on her face ; she turned her clear eyes toward him. 

' ' Then you do not mind the children ? They are not 
a burdensome weight upon you V 

' ' Never, papa ; how can you suppose it ? I love them 
dearly, next to you." 

' ' And will you stand by them, Anne ? Note my 
words: I do not urge it, I simply ask." 

' ' Of course I will stand by them, papa. I give a promise 
of my own accord. I will never forsake them as long as I 
can do anything for them, as long as I live. But why do 
you speak of it ? Have I ever neglected them or been un- 
kind to them ?" said the girl, troubled, and very near tears. 

' ' No, dear ; you love them better than they or I deserve. 
I was thinking of the future, and of a time when" — he 
had intended to say, " when I am no longer with you," 
but the depth of love and trust in her eyes made him hes- 
itate, and finish his sentence differently — "a time when 
they may give you trouble," he said. 

"They are good boys— that is, they mean no harm, 
papa. "When they are older they will study more." 

"Will they?" 

" Certainly ," said Anne, with confidence. "I did. 
And as for Tita, you yourself must see, i^ajiSi, what a re- 
markable child she is." 

Douglas shaded his face with his hand. The uneasy 
sense of trouble which always stirred within him when 
he thought of his second daughter was rising to the sur- 
face now like a veiled, formless shape. ' ' The sins of the 
fathers," he thought, and sighed heavily. 

Anne threw her arms round his neck, and begged him 
to look at her. "Papa, speak to me, please. What is it 
that troubles you so ?" 

"Stand by little Tita, child, no matter what she does. 
Do not expect too much of her, but remember always her 
— her Indian blood," said the troubled father, in a low 
voice. 

A fiush crossed Anne's face. The cross of mixed blood 



ANNE. 21 

in the younger children was never alluded to in the fam- 
ily circle or among their outside friends. In truth, there 
had heen many such mixtures on the island in the old 
times, although comparatively few in the modern days to 
which William Douglas's second marriage belonged. 

''Tita is French," said Anne, speaking rapidly, almost 
angrily. 

' ' She is more French than Indian. Still — one never 
knows." Then, after a pause: "I have been a slothful 
father, Anne, and feel myself cowardly also in thus shift- 
ing upon your shoulders my own responsibilities. Still, 
what can I do ? I can not re-live my life ; and even if I 
could, i)erhaps I might do the same again. I do not 
know — I do not know\ We are as we are, and tenden- 
cies dating generations back come out in us, and confuse 
our actions." 

He spoke dreamily. His eyes were assuming that 
vague look with which his children were familiar, and 
which betokened that his mind was far away. 

"You could not do anything which was not right, 
father," said Anne. 

She was standing by his side now, and in her young 
strength might have been his champion against the whole 
world. Tlie fire-light shining out showed a prematurely 
old man, v\4iose thin form, bent drooping shoulders, and 
purposeless face were but Time's emphasis upon the slen- 
der, refined, dreamy youth, who, entering the domain of 
doubt with honest negations and a definite desire, still wan- 
dered there, lost to the world, having forgotten his first 
object, and loving the soft haze now for itself alone. 

Anne received no answer : her father's mind had pass- 
ed away from her. After waiting a few moments in si- 
lence she saw that he was lost in one of his reveries, and 
sitting down again she took up her work and went on 
sewing with rapid stitches. Poor Anne and her poor 
presents ! How coarse the little white shirts for Louis 
and Andre ! how rough the jacket for Gabriel ! How 
forlorn the doll ! How awkwardly fashioned the small 
cloth shippers for Tita ! The elder sister was obliged to 
make her Christmas gifts with her own hands ; she had 



22 ANNE. 

no money to spend for such superfluities. The poor doll 
had a cloth face, with features painted on a flat surface, 
and a painful want of profile. A little before twelve the 
last stitch was taken with happy content. 

' ' Papa, it is nearly midnight ; do not sit up very late," 
said the daughter, bending to kiss the father's bent, brood- 
ing brow. William Douglas's mind came back for an 
instant, and looked out through his clouded eyes upon 
his favorite child. He kissed her, gave her his usual 
blessing, "May God help the soul He has created!" and 
then, almost before she had closed the door, he was far 
away again on one of those long journeyings which he 
took silently, only his following guardian angel knew 
whither. Anne went across the hall and entered the 
sitting-room ; the fire was low, but she stirred the em- 
bers, and by their light filled the four stockings hanging 
near the chimney-i^iece. First she jjut in little round 
cakes wraiDped in papers ; then home-made candies, not 
thoroughly successful in outline, but well-flavored and 
sweet; next gingerbread elephants and camels, and an 
attempt at a fairy ; lastly the contents of her work-bas- 
ket, which gave her much satisfaction as she insi)ected 
them for the last time. Throwing a great knot, which 
would burn slowly all night, upon the bed of dying coals, 
she lighted a candle and went up to her own room. 

As soon as she had disappeared, a door opened softly 
above, and a small figure stole out into the dark hall. 
After listening a moment, this little figure went silently 
down the stairs, iDaused at the line of light underneath the 
closed study door, listened again, and then, convinced that 
all was safe, went into the sitting-room, took down the 
stockings one by one, and deliberately inspected all their 
contents, sitting on a low stool before the fire. First 
came the stockings of the boys ; each parcel was unroll- 
ed, down to the last gingerbread camel, and as deftly en- 
wrapped again by the skillful little fingers. During this 
examination there was not so much an expression of in- 
terest as of jealous scrutiny. But when the turn of her 
own stocking came, the small face showed the most pro- 
found, almost weazened, solicitude. Package after pack- 



ANNE. 23 

age was swiftly opened, and its contents spread upon th^ 
mat beside her. The doll w^as cast aside with contemj^t, 
the slippers examined and tried on with critical care, and 
then when the candy and cake appeared and nothing 
else, the eyes snapped with anger. 

The little brown hand felt down to the toe of the stock- 
ing : no, there was nothing more. "It is my opinion, " 
said Tita, in her French island patois, half aloud, ' ' that 
Annet is one stupid beast." 

She then replaced everything, hung the stockings on 
their nails, and stole back to her own room ; here, by the 
light of a secreted candle-end, she manufactured the fol- 
lowing epistle, with heavy labor of brains and hand: 
"Cher papa, — I hav dreemed that Sant Klos has hare- 
ribbans in his pak. Will you ask him for sum for your 
little Tita V This not seeming sufficiently expressive, she 
inserted " trez affecsionay" before "Tita," and then, fold- 
ing the epistle, she went softly down the stairs again, and 
stealing round in the darkness tln-ough several unused 
rooms, she entered her father's bedroom, which commu- 
nicated with the study, and by sense of feeling pinned 
the paper carefully round his large pipe, which lay in its 
usual place on the table. For William Douglas always 
began smoking as soon as he rose, in this way nullifying, 
as it were, the fresh, vivifying effect of the morning, 
which smote painfully upon his eyes and mind alike ; in 
the afternoon and evening he did not smoke so steadily, 
the falling shadows supplying of themselves the atmos- 
phere he loved. Having accomplished her little manoeu- 
vre, Tita went back up stairs to her own room like a small 
white ghost, and fell asleep with the satisfaction of a suc- 
cessful diplomatist. 

In the mean time Anne was brushing her brown hair, 
and thoughtfully going over in her own mind the mor- 
row's dinner. Her room was a bare and comfortless 
place; there was but a small fire on the hearth, and no 
curtains over the windows ; it took so m.uch care and wood 
to keep the children's rooms warm that she neglected her 
own, and as for the furniture, she had removed it piece 
bv piece, exchanging it for broken-backed worn-out arti- 



24 ANNE. 

cles from all parts of the house. One leg of the bed- 
stead was gone, and its place supplied by a box which 
the old-fashioned valance only half concealed ; the look- 
ing-glass was cracked, and distorted her image; the 
chairs were in hospital and out of service, the young mis- 
tress respecting their injuries, and using as her own 
seat an old wooden stool which stood near the hearth. 
Upon this she w^as now seated, the rippling waves of her 
thick hair flowing over her shoulders. Having at last 
faithfully rehearsed the Christmas dinner in all its 
points, she drew a long breath of relief, rose, extinguish- 
ed her light, and going over to the window, stood there 
for a moment looking out. The moonlight came gleam- 
ing in and touched her with silver, her jDure youthful 
face and girlish form draped in white. ' ' May God bless 
my dear father," she prayed, silently, looking up to the 
thick studded stars ; ' ' and my dear mother too, wher- 
ever she is to-night, in one of those far bright w^orlds, 
perhaps." It will be seen from this prayer that the 
boundaries of Anne Douglas's faith were wide enough 
to include even the unknown. 



Chapter II. 

" Heap on more wood ! the wind is chill ; 
But let it whistle as it will, 
We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; 
The hall was dressed with holly green; 
Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
To gather in the mistletoe." — Walter Scott. 

*'Can you make out what the child means?" said 
Douglas, as his elder daughter entered the study early 
on Christmas morning to renew the fire and set the 
apartment in order for the day. As he spoke he held 
Tita's epistle hopelessly before him, and scanned the zig- 
zag lines. 



ANNE. 25 

''She wants some ribbons for her hair," said Anne, 
making out the words over his shoulder. ' ' Poor little 
thing ! she is so proud of her hair, and all the other girls 
have bright ribbons. But I can not make ribbons," she 
added, regretfully, as though she found herself wanting 
in a needful accomplishment. "Think of her faith in 
Santa Klaus, old as she is, and her waiting to ask him ! 
But there is ribbon in the house, after all," she added, sud- 
denly, her face brightening. ' ' Miss Lois gave me some 
last month ; I had forgotten it. That will be the very 
thing for Tita; she has not even seen it." 

(But has she not, thou unsuspicious elder sister ?) 

"Do not rob yourself, child," said the father, wearily 
casting his eyes over the slip of paper again. "What 
spelling! The English is bad, but the French worse." 

' ' That is because she has no French teacher, j^apa ; and 
you know I do not allow her to speak the island patois, 
Jest it should corrupt the little she knows." 

' ' But she does speak it ; she always talks patois when 
she is alone with me." 

"Does she ?" said Anne, in astonishment. "I had no 
idea of that. But T/oie might correct her, x^apa. " 

"I can never correct her in any way," replied Douglas, 
gloomily ; and then Anne, seeing that he was on the 
threshold of one of his dark moods, lighted his pipe, 
stirred the fire into a cheery blaze, and went out to get a 
cup of coffee for him. For the Irish soldier's wife was 
already at work in the kitchen, having been to mass in 
the cold gray dawn, down on her two knees on the hard 
floor, repentant for all her sins, and refulgently content 
in the absolution which wiped out the old score (and 
left place for a new one). After taking in the coffee, 
Anne ran up to her own room, brought down the ribbon, 
and placed it in Tita's stocking; she then made up the 
fire with light-wood, and set about decorating the walls 
with wreaths of evergreen as the i)atter of the little boys' 
feet was heard on the old stairway. The breakfast talble 
was noisy that morning. Tita had inspected her ribbons 
demurely, and wondered how Santa Klaus knew her fa- 
vorite colors so well. x\nne glanced toward her father, 



26 ANNE. 

and smiled ; but the father's face showed doubt, and did 
not respond. Wliile they were still at the table the door 
opened, and a tall figure entered, muffled in furs. ' ' Miss 
Lois!" cried the boys. "Hurrah! See our presents, 
Miss Lois." They danced round her while she removed 
her wrappings, and ker)t up such a noise that no one 
could speak. Miss Lois, viewed without her cloak and 
hood, was a tall, angular woman, past middle age, with 
sharp fea,tiires, thin brown hair tinged with gray, and 
pale blue eyes shielded by spectacles. She kissed Anne 
first with evident affection, and afterward the children 
with business-like promptitude; then she shook hands 
with William Douglas. ' ' I wish you a happy Christ- 
mas, doctor," she said. 

" Thank you, Lois," said Douglas, holding her hand in 
his an instant or two longer than usual. 

A faint color rose in Miss Lois's cheeks. When she 
was young she had one of those exquisitely delicate com- 
plexions which seem to belong to some parts of New 
England; even now color would rise unexpectedly in 
her cheeks, much to her annoyance : she wondered why 
wrinkles did not keep it down. But New England 
knows her own. The creamy skins of the South, with 
their brown shadows under the eyes, the rich colors of 
the West, even the calm white complexions that are 
bred and long retained in cities, all fade before this faint 
healthy bloom on old New England's cheeks, like winter- 
apples. 

Miss Lois inspected the boys' presents with exact atten- 
tion, and added some gifts of her own, which filled the 
room with a more j iibilant uproar than before. Tita, in 
the mean while, remained quietly seated at the table, eat- 
ing her breakfast; she took very small mouthfuls, and 
never hurried herself. She said she liked to taste things, 
and that only snapping dogs, like the boys, for instance, 
gulped their food in a mass. 

"I gave her the ribbons; do not say anything," whis- 
pered Anne, in Miss Lois's ear, as she saw the spectacled 
eyes turning toward Tita's corner. Miss Lois frowned, 
and put back into her pocket a small parcel she was tak- 



ANNE. 27 

ing out. She had forg-iven Dr. Douglas the existence of 
the boys, but she never could forgive the existence of Tita. 

Once Anne had asked about Angelique. ' ' I was but a 
child when she died, Miss Lois," said she, " so my recol- 
lection of her may not be accurate ; but I know that I 
thought her very beautiful. Does Tita look like her ?" 

"Angelique Lafontaine was beautiful — in her way," 
replied Miss Lois. " I do not say that I admire that way, 
mind you." 

"And Tita?" 

" Tita is hideous." 

"Oh, Miss Lois!" 

"She is, child. She is dwarfish, black, and sly." 

"I do not think she is sly," replied Anne, with heat. 
"And although she is dark and small, still, sometimes — " 

' ' That, for your beauty of ' sometimes V " said Miss Lois, 
sna]3ping her fingers. " Give me a girl who is pretty in 
the morning as well as by candle-light, one who has a 
nice, white, well-born, down-East face, and none of your 
Western-border mongrelosities !" 

But this last phrase she uttered under her breath. She 
was ever mindful of xlnne's tender love for her father, 
and the severity with which she herself, as a contempo- 
rary, had judged him was never revealed to the child. 

At half past ten the Douglas family were all in their 
places in the little fort chaiDcl. It was a bright but bit- 
terly cold day, and the members of the small congrega- 
tion came enveloped in shaggy furs like bears, shedding 
their skins at the door, where they lay in a pile near the 
stove, ready for the return homeward. The military 
trappings of the oflicers brightened the upper benches, 
the uniforms of the common soldiers filled the space be- 
hind ; on the side benches sat the few Protestants of the 
Tillage, denominational prejudices unknown or forgotten 
in this far-away spot in the wilderness. The chaplain, the 
Reverend James Gaston — a man who lived in peace with 
all the world, with Pere Michaux, the Catholic priest, and 
William Douglas, the deist — gazed round upon his flock 
with a benignant air, which brightened into affection as 
Anne's voice took up the song of the angels, singing, 



28 ANNE. 

amid the ice and snow of a new world, the strain the 
shepherds heard on the plains of Palestine. 

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, 
good-will toward men," sang Anne, with all her young 
heart. And Miss Lois, sitting with folded hands, and 
head held stiffly erect, saw her wreath in the place of hon- 
or over the altar, and was touched first with x^ride and 
then with a slight feeling of awe. She did not helieve 
that one ]3art of the church was more sacred than anoth- 
er — she could not ; hut heing a High-Church Episcopalian 
now, she said to herself that she ought to ; she even had 
appalling visions of herself, sometimes, going as far as 
Rome. But the old spirit of Calvinism was still on the 
ground, ready for many a wrestling match yet; and 
stronger than all else were the old associations connected 
with the square white meeting-house of her youth, which 
held their place undisturhed down helow all these upper 
currents of a new faith. William Douglas was also a 
New-Englander, brought up strictly in the creed of his 
fathers ; but as Miss Lois's change of creed was owing to 
a change of position, as some Northern birds turn their 
snow-color to a darker hue when taken away from arctic 
regions, so his was one purely of mind, owing to nothing 
but the processes of thought within him. He had drift- 
ed av/ay from all creeds, save in one article : he believed 
in a Creator. To this great Creator's praise, and in wor- 
shii3 of Him, he now poured forth his harmonies, the pur- 
est homage he could offer, "unless," he thought, " Anne 
is a living homage as she stands here beside me. But 
no, she is a soul by herself; she has lier own life to live, 
her own worship to offer; I must not call her mine. 
That she is my daughter is naught to me save a great 
blessing. I can love her with a human father's love, 
and thank God for her affection. But that is all." 

So he played his sweetest music, and Miss Lois fervent- 
ly prayed, and made>^o mistake in the order of her pray- 
ers. She liked to have a vocal part in the service. It 
was a pleasure to herself to hear her own voice lifted up, 
even as a miserable sinner ; for at home in the old white 
meeting-house all expression had been denied to her, the 



ANNE. 29 

small outlet of the Psalms being of little avail to a person 
who could not sing". This dumbness stifled her, and she 
had often said to herself that the men would never have 
endured it either if they had not had the prayer-meetings 
as a safety-valve. The three boys were penned in at Miss 
Lois's side, within reach of her tapping hnger. They had 
decided to attend service on account of the evergreens 
and Anne's singing, although they, as well as Tita, be- 
longed in reality to the flock of Father Michaux. Anne 
never interfered with this division of the family; she 
considered it the one tie which bound the children to the 
memory of their mother ; but Miss Lois shook her head 
over it, and sighed ominously. The boys were, in fact^ 
three little heathen ; but Tita was a devout Roman Cath- 
olic, and observed all the feast and fast days of the Church, 
to the not infrequent disturbance of the young mistress of 
the household, to whom a feast-day was oftentimes an oc- 
casion bristling with difficulty. But to-day, in honor of 
Christmas, the usual frugal dinner had been made a ban- 
quet indeed, by the united efforts of Anne and Miss Lois ; 
and when they took their seats at the table which stood 
in the sitting-room, all felt that it held an abundance fit 
even for the old fur-trading days. Miss Lois herself hav- 
ing finally succumbed to that island standard of compar- 
ison. After the dinner was over, while they were sitting 
round the fire sipping coffee — the ambrosia of the North- 
ern gods, who find some difficulty in keeping themselves 
warm — a tap at the door was heard, and a tall youth en- 
tered, a youth who was a vivid personification of early 
manhood in its brightest form. The warm air was stirred 
by the little rush of cold that came in with him, and the 
dreamy and drowsy eyes round the fire awoke as they 
rested upon him, 

" The world is alive, then, outside, after all," said Miss 
Lois, briskly straightening herself in her chair, and tak- 
ing out her knitting. " How do you do, Erastus ?" 

But her greeting was drowned by the noise of the boys, 
who had been asleep together on the rug in a tangled 
knot, like three young bears, but now, broadly awake 
again, were jumping round the new-comer, displaying 



30 ANNE. 

their gifts and demanding admiration. Disentangling 
himself from them with a skill which showed a long ex- 
perience in their modes of twisting, the young man made 
his way up to Anne, and, with a smile and bow to Dr. 
Douglas and Miss Lois, sat down by her side. 

"You were not at church this morning," said the girl, 
looking at him rather gi'avely, but giving him her hand. 

' ' No, I was not ; but a merry Christmas all the same, 
Annet," answered the youth, throwing back his golden 
head with careless grace. At this moment Tita came 
forward from her furry corner, where she had been lying 
with her head on her arm, half asleep, and seated herself 
in the red light of the fire, gazing into the blaze with soft 
indifference. Her dark woollen dress was brightened 
by the ribbons which circled her little waist and knotted 
themselves at the ends of the long braids of her hair. 
She had a string of yellow beads round her neck, and on 
her feet the little slippers which Anne had fashioned for 
her with so much care. Her brown hands lay crossed on 
her lap, and her small but bold-featured profile looked 
more delicate than usual, outlined in relief like a little 
cameo against the flame. The visitor's ej^es rested upon 
her for a moment, and then turned back to Anne. 
' ' There is to be a dance to-night down in one of the old 
warehouses," he said, "and I want you to go." 

"A dance!" cried the boys; "then ive are going too. 
It is Christmas night, and we know how to dance. See 
here. " And they sprang out into the centre of the room, 
and began a figure, not without a certain wild grace of 
its own, keeping time to the shrill whistling of Gabriel, 
who was the fifer and leader of the band. 

Miss Lois put down her knitting, and disapproved, for 
the old training was still strong in her; then she remem- 
bered that these were things of the past, shook her head 
at herself, sighed, and resumed it again. 

" Of coUiTse you will go," said the visitor. 

" I do not know that I can go. East, " replied Anne, 
turning toward her father, as if to see what he thought. 

"Yes, go," said Douglas — "go, Annet." He* hardly 
ever used this name, which the children had given to 



ANNE. 31 

their elder sister — a name that was not the French " An- 
nette, "but, like the rest of the island patois^ a mispro- 
nunciation — " An'net, " with the accent on the first syl- 
lable. "It is Christmas night," said Doug-las, with a 
faint interest on his faded face ; "I should like it to be a 
pleasant recollection for you, Annet." 

The young girl went to him ; he kissed her, and then 
rose to go to his study ; but Tita's eyes held him, and he 
paused. 

"Will you go, Miss Lois ?" said Anne. 

"Oh no, child," replied the old maid, primly, adjusting 
her spectacles. 

"But you must go, Miss Lois, and dance with me," 
said Rast, springing up and seizing her hands. 

"Fie, Erastus! for shame! Let me go," said Miss 
Lois, as he tried to draw her to her feet. He still bent 
over her, but she tapped his cheek with her knitting-nee- 
dles, and told him to sit down and behave himself. 

"I won't, unless you promise to go with us," he 
said. 

"Why should you not go, Lois ?" said Douglas, still 
standing at the door. " The boys want to go, and some 
one must be with them to keep them in order." 

"Why, doctor, imagine me at a dancing party!" said 
Miss Lois, the peach-like color rising in her thin cheeks 
again. 

" It is different here, Lois; everybody goes." 

"Yes; even old Mrs. Kendig," said Tita, softly. 

Miss Lois looked sharply at her ; old Mrs. Kendig was 
fat, toothless, and seventy, and the active, spare New 
England woman felt a sudden wrath at the implied com- 
parison. Griselda was not tried upon the subject of her 
age, or we might have had a different legend. But Tita 
looked as idly calm as a summer morning, and Miss Lois 
turned away, as she had turned a hundred times before, 
uncertain between intention and simple chance. 

"Very well, then, I will go," she said. "How you 
bother me, Erastus !" 

"No, I don't," said the youth, releasing her. "You 
know you like me. Miss Lois; you know you do." 



32 ANNE. 

"Brazen-face!" said Miss Lois, pushing liim away. 
But any one could see tliat slie did like him. 

"Of course I may go, father ?" said Tita, without stir- 
ring, but looking at him steadily. 

"I suppose so," he answered, slowly; "that is, if Eras- 
tus will take care of you." 

"Will you take care of me, Erastus ?" asked the soft 
voice. 

"Don't he absurd, Tita; of course he will," said Miss 
Lois, shortly. " He will see to you as well as to the oth- 
er children." 

And then Douglas turned and left the room. 

Erastus, or East, as he was called, went back to his 
place beside Anne. He was a remarkably handsome youth 
of seventeen, with bright blue eyes, golden hair, a fine 
spirited outline, laughing mouth, and impetuous, quick 
movements ; tall as a young sapling, his figure was al- 
most too slender for its height, but so light and elastic 
that one forgave the fault, and forgot it in one look at 
the mobile face, still boyish in spite of the maturity giv- 
en by the hard cold life of the North. 

"Why have we not heard of this dance before, Eras- 
tus ?" asked Miss Lois, ever mindful and tenacious of a 
dignity of position which no one disputed, but which was 
none the less to her a subject of constant and belligerent 
watchfulness— one by which she gauged the bow of the 
shop-keeper, the nod of the passing islander, the salute of 
the little half-breed boys who had fish to sell, and even 
the guttural ejaculations of the Chippewas who came to 
her door offering potatoes and Indian sugar. 

" Because it was suggested only a few hours ago, up at 
the fort. I was dining with Dr. Gaston, and Walters 
came across from the commandant's cottage and told me. 
Since then I have been hard at "work with them, decora- 
ting and lighting the ball-room." 

"Which one of the old shells have you taken ?" asked 
Miss Lois. ' ' I hope the roof will not come down on our 
heads." 

' ' We have Larrabee's ; that has the best floor. And 
as to coming down on our heads, those old warehouses 



ANNE. 33 

are stronger than you imagine, Miss Lois. Have you 
never noticed their great beams ?" 

'* I have noticed their toppling fronts and their slant- 
ing sides, their bulgings out and their leanings in," re- 
plied Miss Lois, nodding her head emphatically. 

' ' The leaning tower of Pisa, you know, is pronounced 
stronger than other towers that stand erect," said East. 
' ' That old brown shell of Larrabee's is jointed together 
so strongly that I venture to predict it will outlive us all. 
We might be glad of such joints ourselves. Miss Lois." 

"If it will only not come down on our heads to-night, 
that is all I ask of its joints," replied Miss Lois. 

Soon after seven o'clock the ball opened: darkness 
had already lain over the island for nearly tlii'ee hours, 
and the evening seemed well advanced. 

"Oh, Tita!" said Anne, as the child stepped out of her 
long cloak and stood revealed, clad in a fantastic short 
skirt of black cloth barred with scarlet, and a little scar- 
let bodice, ' ' that dress is too thin, and besides — " 

"She looks like a circus-rider," said Miss Lois, in dis- 
may. " Why did you allow it, Anne ?" 

"I knew nothing of it," replied the elder sister, with a 
distressed expression on her face, but, as usual, not re- 
proving Tita. "It is the little fancy dress the fort ladies 
made for her last summer when they had tableaux. It 
is too late to go back now ; she must wear it, I suppose ; 
perhaps in the crowd it will not be noticed." 

Tita, unmoved, had walked meanwhile over to the 
hearth, and sitting down on the floor before the fire, was 
taking off her snow-boots and donning her new slippers, 
apparently unconscious of remark. 

The scene was a striking one, or would have been such 
to a stranger. The lower floor of the warehouse had 
been swept and hastily garnished with evergreens and all 
the flags the little fort could muster; at each end on a 
broad hearth a great fire of logs roared up the eld chim- 
ney, and helped to light the room, a soldier standing 
guard beside it, and keeping up the flame by throwing on 
wood every now and then from the heap in the corner 
near by. Candles were ranged along the walls, and Ian- 

3 



•34 ANNE. 

terns hung from the heams above; all that the island 
could do in the way of illumination had been done. The 
result was a picturesque mingling of light and shade as 
the dancers came into the ruddy gleam of the fires and 
passed out again, now seen for a moment in the paler 
ray of a candle farther down the hall, now lost in the 
shadows which everywhere swept across the great brown 
room from side to side, like broad-winged ghosts resting 
in mid-air and looking down upon the revels. The mu- 
sic came from six French fiddlers, four young, gayly 
dressed fellows, and two grizzled, withered old men, and 
they played the tunes of the century before, and played 
them with all their might and main. The little fort, a 
one-company post, was not entitled to a band ; but there 
were, as usual, one or two German musicians among the 
enlisted men, and these now stood near the French fid- 
dlers and watched them with slow curiosity, fingering 
now and then in imagination tlie great brass instruments 
which were to them the keys of melody, and dreaming 
over again the happy days when they, too, played ' ' with 
the band." But the six French fiddlers cared nothing 
for the Germans; they held themselves far above the 
common soldiers of the fort, and despised alike their 
cropped hair, their ideas, their uniforms, and the strict 
rules they were obliged to obey. They fiddled away with 
their eyes cast up to the dark beams above, and their 
tunes rang out in that shrill, sustained, clinging treble 
which no instrument save a violin can give. The 
entire upper circle of society was present, and a sprink- 
ling of the second ; for the young officers cared more for 
dancing than for etiquette, and a j)retty young French 
girl was in their minds of more consequence than even 
the five Misses Macdougall with all their blood, which 
must have been, however, of a thin, although, of course, 
precious, quality, since between the wliole five there 
seemed scarcely enough for one. The five were there, 
however, in green plaided delaines with broad lace col- 
lars and large flat shell-cameo breastpins with scroll-work 
settings : they jDresented an imposing appearance to the 
eyes of all. The father of these ladies, long at rest from 



ANNE. 35 

his ledgers, was in his day a prominent resident official of 
the Fur Company ; his five maiden daughters lived on in 
the old house, and occupied themselves principally in re- 
membering him. Miss Lois seated herself beside these 
acknowledged heads of society, and felt that she was in 
her proper sphere. The dance-music troubled her ears, 
but she endured it manfully. 

"A gay scene," she observed, gazing through her 
spectacles. 

The five Misses Macdougall bowed acquiescence, and 
said that it was fairly gay; indeed, rather too gay, ow- 
ing to more of a mingling than they approved ; but no- 
thing, ah ! nothing, to the magnificent entertainments of 
times past, which had often been described to them by 
their respected parent. (They never seemed to have had 
but one.) 

"Of course you will dance, Anne?" said East Pro- 
nando. 

She smiled an assent, and they were soon among the 
dancers. Tita, left alone, followed them with her eyes 
as they passed out of the fire-light and were lost in the 
crowd and the sweeping shadows. Then she made her 
way, close to the wall, down to the other end of the long 
room, where the commandant's wife and the fort ladies 
sat in state, keeping up the dignity of what might be 
called the military end of the apartment. Here she 
sought the brightest light she could find, and placed her- 
self in it carelessly, and as though by chance, to watch 
the dancers. 

' ' Look at that child, " said the captain's wife. ' ' What 
an odd little thing it is!" 

"It is Tita Douglas, Anne's little sister," said Mrs. 
Bryden, the wife of the commandant. "I am surprised 
they allowed her to come in that tableau dress. Her 
mother was a French girl, I believe. Dr. Douglas, you 
know, came to the island originally as surgeon of the 
post." 

"There is Anne now, and dancing with young Pro- 
nando, of course," said the wife of one of the lieutenants. 

' ' Dr. Gaston thinks there is no one like Anne Douglas, " 



36 ANNE. 

observed Mrs. Br y den. "He has educated her almost 
enth'ely; taught her Latin and Greek, and eJl sorts of 
thmgs. Her father is a musical genius, you know, and 
in one way the girl knows all about music; in anoth- 
er, nothing at all. Do you think she is pretty, Mrs. 
Cromer ?" 

Mrs. Cromer thought "Not at all; too large, and— un- 
formed in every way." 

"I sometimes wonder, though, why she is not pretty," 
said Mrs. Bryden, in a musing tone. ' ' She ought to be. " 

' ' I never knew but one girl of that size and style who 
was pretty, and she had had every possible advantage of 
culture, society, and foreign travel; wore always the 
most elaborately plain costumes— works of art, in a 
Greek sort of way ; said little ; but sat or. stood about in 
statuesque attitudes that made you feel thin and insigni- 
ficant, and glad you had all your clothes on," said Mrs, 
Cromer. 

"And was this girl pretty ?" 

"She was simply superb," said the captain's wife. 
"But do look at young Pronando. How handsome he 
is to-night!" 

"An Apollo Belvedere," said the wife of the lieuten- 
ant, who, having rashly allowed herself to spend a sum- 
mer at West Point, was now living in the consequences. 

But although the military element presided like a court 
circle at one end of the room, and the five Misses Mac- 
dougall and Miss Lois like an element of first families at 
the other, the intervening space was well filled with a mot- 
ley assemblage — lithe young girls with sparkling black 
eyes and French vivacity, matrons with a shade more of 
brown in their complexions, and withered old grandams 
who sat on benches along the Avails, and looked on with 
a calm dignity of silence which never came from Saxon 
blood. Intermingled were youths of rougher aspect but 
of fine mercurial temperaments, who danced with all 
their hearts as well as bodies, and kept exact time with 
the music, throwing in fancy steps from pure love of it 
as they whirled lightly down the hall with their laughing 
partners. There were a few young men of Scotch descent 



ANNE. 37 

present also, clerks in the shops, and superintendents of 
the fisheries which now formed the only business of the 
once thriving frontier village. These were considered 
by island parents of the better class desirable suitors for 
their daughters — far preferable to the young officers who 
succeeded each other rapidly at the little fort, with at- 
tachments delightful, but as transitory as themselves. 
It was noticeable, however, that the daughters thought 
otherwise. Near the doorway in the shadow a crowd of 
Indians had gathered, while almost all of the common 
soldiers from the fort, on one jiretext or another, were in 
the hall, attending to the fires and lights, or acting as 
self-appointed police. Even Chaplain Gaston looked in 
for a moment, and staid an hour ; and later in the even- 
ing the tall form of Pere Michaux appeared, clad in a 
furred mantle, a black silk cap crowning his silver hair. 
Tita immediately left her place and went to meet him, 
bending her head with an air of deep reverence. 

"See the child — how theatrical T' said Mrs. Cromer. 

"Yes. Still, the Romanists do believe in all kinds of 
amusements, and even ask a blessing on it," said the lieu- 
tenant's wife. 

' ' It was not that — it was the little air and attitude of 
devoutness that I meant. See the puss now !" 

But the puss was triumphant at last. One of the 
younger ofiicers had noted her solemn little salutation in 
front of the priest, and now approached to ask her to 
dance, curious to see what manner of child this small 
creature could be. In another moment she was whirling 
down the hall with him, her dark face flushed, her eyes 
radiant, her dancing exquisitely light and exact. She 
passed Anne and Rast with a si^arkling glance, her small 
breast throbbing with a swell of satisfied vanity that al- 
most stopped her breath. 

"There is Tita," said the elder sister, rather anxiously. 
" I hope Mr. Walters will not spoil her with his flattery." 

"There is no danger; she is not pretty enough," an- 
swered Rast. 

A flush rose in Anne's face. "You do not like my lit- 
tle sister," she said. 



38 ANNE. 

''Oh, I do not dislike her," said Rast. "I could not 
dislike anything that belonged to 2/ow," he added, in a 
lower tone. 

She smiled as he bent his handsome head toward her 
to say this. She was fond of Rast ; he had been her daily 
companion through all her life ; she scarcely remember- 
ed anything in which he was not concerned, from her 
first baby walk in the woods back of the fort, her first 
ride in a dog-sledge on the ice, to yesterday's consultation 
over the chapel evergreens. 

The six French fiddlers played on ; they knew not fa- 
tigue. In imagination they had danced every dance. 
Tita was taken out on the floor several times by the of- 
ficers, who were amused by her little airs and her small 
elfish face : she glowed with triumph. Anne had but few 
invitations, save from Rast ; but as his were continuous, 
she danced all the evening. At midnight Miss Lois and 
the Misses Macdougall formally rose, and the fort ladies 
sent for their wrappings : the ball, as far as the first cir- 
cle was concerned, was ended. But long afterward the 
sound of the fiddles was still heard, and it was surmised 
that the second circle was having its turn, possibly not 
without a sprinkling of the third also. 



ANNE. 



Chapter III. 

" Wassamequin, Nashoonon, and Massaconomet did voluntarily sub- 
mit themselves to the English, and promise to be willing from time to 
time to be instructed in the knowledge of God. Being asked not to 
do any unnecessary Avork on the Sabbath day, they answered, ' It is 
easy to them ; they have not much to do on any day, and can well 
take rest on that day as any other.' So then we, causing them to un- 
derstand the articles, and all the ten commandments of God, and they 
freely assenting to all, they were solemnly received ; and the Court 
gave each of them a coat of two yards of cloth, and their dinner; and 
to them and their men, every one of them, a cup of sack at their de- 
parture. So they took leave, and went away." — Massachusetts ColO' 
nial Records. 

Dr. Gaston sat in liis library, studying a chess pro- 
blem. His clerical coat was old and spotted, his table 
was of rough wood, the floor uncarpeted ; by right, Pover- 
ty should have made herself prominent there. But she 
did not. Perhaps she liked the old chaplain, who showed 
a fine, amply built person under her reign, with florid com- 
plexion, bright blue eyes, and a curly brown wig — very 
different in aspect from her usual lean and dismal retinue ; 
perhaps, also, she stopped here herself to warm her cold 
heart now and then in the hot, bright, crowded little 
room, which was hers by right, although she did not claim 
it, enjoying it, however, as a miserly money-lender en- 
joys the fine house over which he holds a mortgage, rub- 
bing his hands exultingly, as, clad in his thin old coat, 
he walks by. Certainly the plastering had dropped from 
the walls here and there ; there was no furniture save the 
tables and shelves made by the island carpenter, and one 
old leathern arm-chair, the parson's own, a miracle of 
comfort, age, and hanging leather tatters. But on the 
shelves and on the tables, on the floor and on the broad 
window-sills, were books ; they reached the ceiling on the 
shelves; they wainscoted the walls to the height of sev- 



40 ANNE. 

eral feet all round the room ; small volumes were piled 
on the narrow mantel as far up as they could go without 
toppling over, and the tables were loaded also. Aisles 
were kept open leading to the door, to the windows, and 
to the hearth, where the ragged arm-chair stood, and 
where there was a small parade-ground of open floor ; but 
everywhere else the printed thoughts held sway. The 
.•old fire-place was large and deep, and here burned night 
and day, throughout the winter, a fire which made the 
whole room bright ; add to this the sunshine streaming 
through the broad, low, uncurtained windows, and you 
have the secret of the cheerfulness in the very face of a bar- 
ren lack of everything we are accustomed to call comfort. 

The Reverend James Gaston was an Englishman by 
birth. On coming to America he had accepted a chap- 
laincy in the army, with the intention of resigning it as 
soon as he had become sufficiently familiar with the ways 
of the Church in this country to feel at ease in a i)arish. 
But years had i^assed, and he was a chaplain still ; for ev- 
idently the country parishes were not regulated according 
to his home ideas, the rector's authority — yes, even the 
tenure of his rectorship — being dependent upon the 
chance wills and fancies of his people. Here was no dig- 
nity, no time for pleasant classical studies, and no approv- 
al of them ; on the contrary, a continuous going out to 
tea, and a fear of offending, it might be, a warden's wife, 
who very likely had been brought up a Dissenter. The 
Reverend James Gaston therefore joreferred the govern- 
ment for a master. 

Dr. Gaston held the office of post chaplain, having been, 
on application, selected by the council of administration. 
He had no military rank, but as there happened to be 
quarters to spare, a cottage was assigned to him, and as 
he had had the good fortune to be liked and respected by 
all the officers who had succeeded each other on the lit- 
tle island, his position, unlike that of some of his brethren, 
was endurable, and even comfortable. He had been a 
widower for many years; he had never cared to marry 
again, but had long ago recovered his cheerfulness, and 
had brought up, intellectually at least, two children 



ANNE. 4j 

whom lie loved as if they had been his own — the hoy 
Erastns Pronando, and Anne Douglas. The children re- 
turned his affection heartily, and made a great happiness 
in his lonely life. The girl was his good scholar, the boy 
his bad one ; yet the teacher was severe with Anne, and 
indulgent to the boy. If any one had asked the reason, 
perhaps he would have said that girls were docile by na- 
ture, whereas boys, having more tem^Dtations, required 
more lenity ; or perhaj^s that girls who, owing to the con- 
stitution of society, never advanced far in their studies, 
should have all the incitement of severity while those 
studies lasted, whereas boys, who are to go abroad in the 
world and learn from life, need no such severity. But 
the real truth lay deeper than this, and the chaplain him- 
self was partly conscious of it ; he felt that the founda- 
tions must be laid accurately and deeply in a nature like 
that possessed by this young girl. 

" Good-morning, uncle," said Anne, entering and put- 
ting down her Latin books (as children they had adopted 
the fashion of calling their teacher "uncle"). "Was 
your coffee good this morning ?" 

"Ah, well, so-so, child, so-so," replied the chaplain, 
hardly aroused yet from his problem. 

' ' Then I must go out and speak to— to — what is this 
one's name, uncle ?" 

"Her name is — here, I have it written down — Mrs. 
Evelina Crangall," said the chaplain, reading aloud from 
his note-book, in a slow, sober voice. Evidently it was a 
matter of moment to him to keep that name well in his 
mind. 

Public opinion required that Dr. Gaston should employ 
a Protestant servant; no one else was obliged to con- 
form, but the congregation felt that a stand must be made 
somewhere, and they made it, like a chalk line, at the 
parson's threshold. Now it was very well known that 
there were no Protestants belonging to the class of serv- 
ants on the island who could cook at all, that talent being 
confined to the French quarter-breeds and to occasional 
Irish soldiers' wives, none of them Protestants. The poor 
parson's cooking was passed from one incompetent hand 



42 ANNE. 

to another — lake-sailors' wives, wandering emigrants, 
moneyless forlorn females left by steamers, belonging to 
that strange floating population that goes forever travel- 
ling up and down the land, without apparent motive save 
a vague El-Dorado hope whose very conception would be 
impossible in any other country save this. Mrs. Evelina 
Crangall was a hollow-chested woman with faded blue 
eyes, one prominent front tooth, scanty light hair, and 
for a form a lattice-work of bones. She preserved, how- 
ever, a somewhat warlike aspect in her limp calico, and 
maintained that she thoroughly understood the making 
of coffee, but that she was accustomed to the use of a 
French coffee-pot. Anne, answering serenely that no 
French coffee-pot could be obtained in that kitchen, went 
to work and explained the whole jDrocess from the begin- 
ning, the woman meanwhile surveying her with suspi- 
cion, which gradually gave way before the firm but plea- 
sant manner. With a long list of kindred Evelinas, 
Anne had had dealings before. Sometimes her teachings 
effected a change for the better, sometimes they did not, 
but in any case the Evelinas seldom remained long. They 
were wanderers by nature, and had sudden desires to vis- 
it San Francisco, or to " go down the river to Newerleens. " 
This morning, while making her explanation, Anne made 
coffee too. It Vv^as a delicious cupful which she carried 
back with her into the library, and the chaplain, far away 
in the chess country, came down to earth immediately in 
order to drink it. Then they opened the Latin books, and 
Anne translated her page of Livy, her page of Cicero, and 
recited her rules correctly. She liked Latin ; its exactness 
suited her. Mrs. Bryden was w^rong when she said that 
the girl studied Greek. Dr. Gaston had longed to teach 
her that golden tongue, but here William Douglas had 
interfered. ' ' Teach her Latin if you like, but not Greek, " 
he said. " It would injure the child — make what is call- 
ed a blue-stocking of her, I suppose — and it is my duty to 
stand between her and injury." 

" Ah ! ah ! you w^ant to make a belle of her, do you V 
said the cheery chaplain. 

"I said it was my duty; I did not say it was my wish," 



ANNE. 43 

replied the moody father. " If I could have my wish, 
Anne should never know what a lover is all her life long." 

' ' What ! you do not w^isli to have her marry, then ? 
There are ha^^py marriages. Come, Douglas, don't be 
morbid." 

"I know w^liat men are. And you and I are no 
better." 

"But slie may love." 

' ' Ah ! there it is ; she may. And that is what I meant 
when I said that it was my duty to keep her from making 
herself positively unattractive." 

"Greek need not do that," said Dr. Gaston, shortly. 

' ' It need not, but it does. Let me ask you one ques- 
tion : did you ever fall in love, or come anywhere near 
falling in love, with a girl who understood Greek ?" 

"That is because only the homely ones take to it," re 
plied the chaplain, fencing a little. 

But Anne was not taught Greek. After Cicero she 
took up algebra, then astronomy. After that she read 
aloud from a jDonderous Shakspeare, and the old man cor- 
rected her accentuation, and questioned her on the mean- 
ings. A number of the grand old plays the girl knew al- 
most entirely by heart ; they had been her reading-books 
from childhood. The down-pouring light of the vivid 
morning sunshine and the up-coming white glare of the 
ice below met and shone full upon her face and figure as 
she bent over the old volume laid open on the table before 
her, one hand supporting her brow, the other resting on 
the yellow page. Her hands were firm, white, and beau- 
tifully shaped — strong hands, generous hands, faithful 
hands; not the little, idle, characterless, faithless palms 
so common in America, small, dainty, delicate, and shape- 
less, coming from a composite origin. Her thick hair, 
brown as a mellowed chestnut, w^ith a gleam of dark red 
where the light touched it, like the red of November oak 
leaves, was, as usual, in her way, the heavy braids break- 
ing from the coil at the back of her head, one by one, as 
she read on through Hamlet. At last impatiently she 
drew out the comb, and they all fell down over her shoul- 
ders, and left her in momentary peace. 



44 ANNE. 

The lesson was nearly over when Rast Pronando ap- 
peared; he was to enter college — a Western college on 
one of the lower lakes — early in the spring, and that 
prospect made the chaplain's lessons seem dull to him. 
"Very likely they will not teach at all as he does ; I shall 
do much better if I go over the text-hooks by myself," he 
said, confidentially, to Anne. " I do not want to appear 
old-fashioned, you know." 

"Is it unpleasant to be old-fashioned ? I should think 
the old fashions would be sure to be the good ones," said 
the girl. ' ' But I do not want you to go so far beyond 
me, East; we have always been even until now. Will 
you tliink me old-fashioned too when you come back ?" 

" Oh no ; you will always be Anne. I can predict you 
exactly at twenty, and even thirty: there is no doubt 
about you.'''' 

"But shall I be old-fashioned ?" 

' ' Well, perhaps ; but we don't mind it in women. All 
the goddesses were old-fashioned, especially Diana. You 
are Diana," 

"Diana, a huntress. She loved Endymion, who was 
always aslee]^," said Anne, quoting from her school-girl 
mythology. 

This morning East had dropped in to read a little 
Greek with his old master, and to walk home with Anne. 
The girl hurried through her Hamlet, and then yielded 
the place to him. It was a three-legged stool, the only 
companion the arm-chair had, and it Avas the seat for the 
reciting scholar ; the one who was studying sat in a niche 
on the window-seat at a little distance. Anne, retreating 
to this niclie, began to rebraid her hair. 

"But she, within — within — singing with enchanting 
tone, enchanting voice, wove with a — with a golden shuttle 
the sparkling web," read Hast, looking up and dreamily 
watching the brown strands taking their place in the long 
braid. Anne saw his look, and hurried her weaving. 
The girl had thought all her life that her hair was ugly 
because it was so heavy, and neither black nor gold in 
hue; and East, following her opinion, had thought so 
too : she had told him H was, many a time. It was chai-- 



ANNE. 45 

acteristic of her nature that while as a child she had ad- 
mired lier companion's spirited, handsome face and curl- 
ing golden locks, she had never feared lest he might not 
return her affection because she haj^pened to be ugly ; she 
drew no comparisons. But she had often discussed the 
subject of beauty with him, "I should like to be beauti- 
ful,'' she said ; "like that girl at the fort last summer." 

"Pooh! it doesn't make much difference," answered 
Rast, magnanimously. "I shall always like you." 

"That is because you are so generous, dear." 

"Perhaps it is," answered the boy. 

This was two years before, when they were fourteen 
and fifteen years old ; at sixteen and seventeen they had 
advanced but little in their ideas of life and of each other. 
Still, there was a slight change, for Anne now hurried the 
braiding; it hurt her a little that Rast should gaze so 
steadily at the rough, ugly hair. 

When the Greek was finished they said good-by to the 
chaplain, and left the cottage together. As they crossed 
the inner parade-ground, taking the snow path v/hich led 
toward the entrance grating, and which was ke^Dt shov- 
elled out by the soldiers, the snow walls on each side ris- 
ing to their chins, Rast suddenly exclaimed : ' ' Oh, Annet, 
I have thought of something! I am going to take you 
down the fort hill on a sled. Now you need not object, 
because I shall do it in any case, although we are grown 
up, and I am going to college. Probably it will be the 
last time. I shall borrow Bert Bryden's sled. Come 
along." 

All the boy in him was awake ; he seized Anne's wrist, 
and dragged her through first one cross-path, then anoth- 
er, until at last they reached the commandant's door. 
From the v/indows their heads had been visible, turning 
and crossing above the heaped-uj) snow. "Rast, and 
Anne Douglas," said Mrs, Bryden, recognizing the girl's 
fur cap and the youth's golden hair. She tapped on the 
window, and signed to them to enter without ceremony. 
"What is it, Rast ? Good-morning, Anne ; what a color 
you have, child!" 

"Rast has been making me run^" said Anne, smiling, 



46 ANNE. 

and coming toward the hearth, where the fort ladies were 
sitting together sewing, and rather lugubriously recalling 
Christmas times in their old Eastern homes. 

"Throw off your cloak," said Mrs. Cromer, "else you 
will take cold w^hen you go out again." 

"We shall only stay a moment," answered Anne. 

The cloak w^as of strong dark blue w^oollen cloth, close- 
ly fitted to the figure, with a small cape ; it reached from 
her throat to her ankles, and was met and completed by 
fur boots, fur gloves, and a little fur caj). The rough 
plain costume w^as becoming to the vigorous girl. "It 
tones her down," thought the lieutenant's wife ; ' ' she real- 
ly looks quite well." 

In the mean while East had gone across to the dining- 
room to find Bert Bryden, the commandant's son, and 
borrow his sled. 

"And you're really going to take Miss Douglas down 
the hill !" said the boy. ' ' Hurrah ! I'll look out of the 
side window and see. What fun ! Such a big girl to go 
sliding !" 

Anne was a big girl to go ; but East was not to be with- 
stood. She would not get on the sled at the door, as he 
wished, but followed him out through the sally-port, and 
round to the top of the long steep fort hill, whose snowy 
slippery road-track was hardly used at all during the win- 
ter, save by coasters, and those few in number, for the vil- 
lage boys, French and half-breeds, did not view the snow 
as an amusement, or toiling up hill as a recreation. The 
two little boys at the fort, and what Scotch and New Eng- 
land blood there was in the town, held a monopoly of the 
coasting. 

"There they go!" cried Bert, from his perch on the 
deep window-seat overlooking the frozen Straits and the 
village below. ' ' Mamma, you must let me take you down 
now; you are not so big as Miss Douglas." 

Mrs. Bryden, a slender little woman, laughed. "Fan- 
cy the colonel's horror," she said, "if he should see me 
sliding down tliat hill ! And yet it looks as if it might be 
rather stirring," she added, watching the flying sled and 
its load. The sled, of island manufacture, was large and 



ANNE. 47 

sledge-like; it carried two comfortably. Anne held on 
by East's shoulders, sitting behind him, while he guided 
the flying craft. Down they glided, darted, faster and 
faster, losing all sense of everything after a while save 
speed. Reaching the village street at last, they flew across 
it, and out on the icy pier beyond, where East by a skill- 
ful manoeuvre stopped the sled on the very verge. The 
fort ladies were all at the windows now, watching. 

"How dangerous !" said Mrs. Bryden, forgetting her ad- 
miration of a moment before with a mother's irrelevant 
rapidity. ' ' Albert, let me never see or liear of your slid- 
ing on that pier ; another inch, and they would have gone 
over, down on the broken ice below!" 

"I couldn't do it, mamma, even if I tried," replied 
Master Albert, regretfully ; " I always tumble off the sled 
at the street, or else run into one of the warehouses. Only 
East Pronando can steer across slanting, and out on that 
pier." 

' ' I am very glad to hear it, " replied Mrs. Bryden ; ' ' but 
your father must also give you his positive commands on 
the subject. I had no idea that the pier was ever at- 
tempted." 

"And it is not, mamma, except by East," said the boy. 
" Can't I try it when I am as old as he is ?" 

" Hear the child!" said Mrs. Cromer, going back to her 
seat by the fire ; ' ' one would suppose he expected to stay 
here all his life. Do you not know, Bert, that we are only 
here for a little w^hile — a year or two ? Before you are 
eighteen months older very likely you will find yourself 
out on the plains. What a life it is !" 

The fort ladies all sighed. It w^as a habit they had. 
They drew the dreariest pictures of their surroundings and 
privations in their letters homeward, and really believed 
them, theoretically. In truth, there were some privations ; 
but would any one of them have exchanged army life for 
civilian ? To the last, thorough army ladies retain their 
ways; you recognize them even when retired to private 
and perhaps more prosperous life. Cosmopolitans, they 
do not sink into the ruts of small-town life ; they are nev- 
er provincial. They take the world easily, having a plea- 



48 ANNE. 

sant, generous taste for its pleasures, and making light of 
the burdens that fall to their share. All little local rules 
and ways are nothing to them : neither here nor anywhere 
are they to remain long. With this habit and manner 
they keep up a vast amount of general cheeriness — vast in- 
deed, when one considers how small the incomes some- 
times are. But if small, they are also sure. 

"Rast Pronando is too old for such frolics, I think," 
said Mrs. Rankin, the lieutenant's wife, beginning anoth- 
er seam in the new dress for her baby. 

' ' He goes to college in the spring ; that will quiet him, " 
said Mrs. Bryden. 

' ' What will he do afterward ? Is he to live here ? At 
this end of the world — this jumping-off place ?" 

' ' I suppose so ; he has always lived here. But he be- 
longs, you know, to the old Philadelphia family of the 
same name, the Peter Pronandos." 

' ' Does he ? How strange ! How did he come here ?" 

' ' He was born here : Dr. Gaston told me his history. 
It seems that the boy's father was a wild younger son of 
the second Peter, grandson, of course, of the original Pe- 
ter, from whom the family derive all their greatness — mid 
money. This Peter the third, only his name was not Pe- 
ter, but John (the eldest sons were the Peters), wandered 
away from home, and came up here, where his father's 
name was well known among the directors of the Fur 
Company. John Pronando, who must have been of very 
different fibre from the rest of the family, liked the wild 
life of the border, and even went off on one or two long 
expeditions to the Red River of the North and the Upper 
Missouri after furs with the hunters of the Company. 
His father then offered him a position here which would 
carry with it authority, but he curtly refused, saying that 
he had no taste for a desk and pen like Peter. Peter was 
his brother, who had begun dutifully at an early age his 
life-long task of taking- care of the large accumulation of 
land which makes the family so rich. Peter was the 
good boy always. Father Peter was naturally angry 
with John, and inclined even then to cross his name off 
the family list of heirs; this, ho'.N^ever, was not really 



ANNE. 49 

done until the prodigal crowned his long course of mis 
deeds by marrying the pretty daughter of a Scotchman, 
who held one of the smaller clerkships in the Company's 
warehouses here — only a grade above the hunters them- 
selves. This w^as the end. Almost anything else might 
have been forgiven save a marriage of that kind. If 
John Pronando had selected the daughter of a flat-boat 
man on the Ohio River, or of a Pennsylvania mountain 
w^agoner, they might have accepted her — at a distance — 
and made the best of her. But a person from the rank 
and file of their own Fur Company — it was as though a 
colonel should marry the daughter of a common soldier 
in his own regiment: yes, worse, for nothing can equal 
the Pronando pride. From that day John Pronando was 
simply forgotten — so they said. His mother was dead, 
so it may have been true. A small sum was settled upon 
him, and a will was carefully draw^n up forever exclud- 
ing him and the heirs he might have from any share in 
the estate. John did not ai^pear to mind this, but lived 
on merrily enough for some years afterward, until his 
sweet little wife died ; then he seemed to lose his strength 
suddenly, and soon followed her, leaving this one boy, 
Erastus, named after the maternal grandfather, with hig 
usual careless disregard of what would be for his advan- 
tage. The boy has been brought up by our good chap- 
lain, although he lives with a family down in the village ; 
the doctor has husbanded what money there w^as careful- 
ly, and there is enough to send him through college, and 
to start him in life in some way. A good education he 
considered the best investment of all." 

"In a fresh- water college ?" said Mrs. Cromer, raising 
her eyebrows. 

"Why not, for a fresh-water boy? He will always 
live in the West." 

"He is so handsome," said Mrs. Rankin, "that he 
might go Eastward, cajotivate his relatives, and win his 
way back into the family again." 

"He does not know anj^thing about his family," said 
the colonel's w^fe. 

"Then some one ought to tell him." 
4 



50 ANNE. 

" Why ? Simply for the money ? No: let him lead 
his own life out here, and make his own way," said Mrs. 
Brj^den, warmly. 

"What a radical you are, Jane!" 

' ' No, not a radical ; but I have seen two or three of the 
younger Pronandos, of the fourth- generation, I mean, 
and whenever I think of their dead eyes, and lifeless, 
weary manner, I feel like doing what I can to keep Rast 
away from them." 

"But the boy must live his life, Jane. These very 
Pronandos whom you describe will probably be sober and 
staid at fifty : the Pronandos always are. And Rast, aft- 
er all, is one of them." 

" But not like them. He would go to ruin, he has so 
much more imagination than they have." 

^^ And less stability?" 

"Well, no ; less ei^icureanism, perhaps. It is the solid 
good things of life that bring tlie Pronandos back, after 
they have indulged in youthful wildness: they have no 
taste for liusks." 

Then the colonel came in, and, soon after, the sewing 
circle broke up, Mrs. Cromer and Mrs. Rankin returning 
to their quarters in the other cottages through the walled 
snow-paths. The little fort was perched on the brow of 
the cliff, overlooking the village and harbor; the win- 
dows of the stone cottages which formed the officers' 
quarters commanded an uninterrupted view of blue water 
in summer, and white ice-fields in winter, as far as the 
eye could reach. It could hardly have withstood a bom- 
bardment ; its walls and block-houses, erected as a defense 
against the Indians, required constant propping and new 
foundation-work to keep them within the requirements of 
safety, not to si)eak of military dignity. But the soldiei*s 
had nothing else to do, and, on the whole, the fort looked 
well, especially from the water, crowning the green height 
with buttressed majesty. During eight months of the 
year the officers played chess and checkers, and the men 
played fox -and -geese. The remaining four months, 
which comprised all there was of spring, summer, and 
autumn, were filled full of out-door work and enjoyment; 



ANx\E, 



51 



summer visitors came, and the United States uniform took 
its conquering place, as usual, among the dancers, at the 
picnics, and on the fast-sailing fishing-boats which did 
duty as yachts, skimming over the clear water in whose 
depths fish could be seen swimming forty feet below. 
These same fish were caught and eaten — the large lake 
trout, and the delicate white-fish, aristocrat of the fresh- 
water seas; three-quarters of the population were fisher- 
men, and the whole town drew its food from the deep. 
The business had broadened, too, as the Prairie States 
became more thickly settled, namely, the salting and 
packing for sale of these fresh-Avater fish. Barrels stood 
on the piers, and brisk agents, with pencils behind their 
ears, stirred the slow-moving villagers into activity, as 
the man with a pole stirs up the bears. Fur-bearing 
animals had had their day ; it was now the turn of the 
creatures of the deep. 

*'Let us stop at the church-house a moment and see 
Miss Lois," said East, as, dragging the empty sled be- 
hind him, he walked by Anne's side through the village 
street toward the Agency. 

"I am afraid I have not time. East." 

" Make it, then. Come, Annet, don't be ill-natured. 
And, besides, you ought to see that I go there, for I have 
not called upon Miss Lois this year." 

"As this year only began last week, you are not so 
very far behind," said the girl, smiling. ' ' Why can you 
not go and see Miss Lois alone ?" 

" I should be welcome, at any rate; she adores me." 

"Does she, indeed!" 

"Yes, Miss Douglas, she does. She pretends other- 
wise, but that is always the way with women. Oh! I 
know the world." 

"You are only one year older than I am." 

"In actual time, perhaps; but twenty years older in 
knowledge." 

"What will you be, then, when you come back from 
college ? An old man ?" 

"By no means; for I shall stay where I am. But in 
the mean time you will catch up with me." 



52 ANNE. 

Handsome East had passed through his novitiate, so he 
thought. His knowledge of the world was derived 
partly from Lieutenant Walters, who, although fresh 
from West Point, was still several years older than 
young Pronando, and patronized him accordingly, and 
partly from a slender, low-voiced Miss Carew, who was 
thirty, but appeared twenty, after the manner of slen- 
der yellow-white blondes who have never possessed any 
rose-tints, having always been willowy and amber-col- 
ored. Miss Carew sailed, for a summer's amusement 
through the Great Lakes of the West ; and then returned 
Eastward with the opinion that they were but so many 
raw, blank, inland oceans, without sensations or local 
coloring enough to rouse her. The week on the island, 
which was an epoch in East's life, had held for her but 
languid interest ; yet even the languid work of a master- 
hand has finish and power, and East was melancholy 
and silent for fifteen days after the enchantress had de- 
parted. Then he wrote to her one or two wild letters, 
and received no answer ; then he grew bitter. Then 
Walters came, with his cadet's deep experience in life, 
and the youth learned from him, and re-appeared on the 
surface again with a tinge of cynicism which filled Anne 
with wonder. For he had never told her the story of 
the summer; it was almost the only event in his life 
which she had not shared. But it was not that he fear- 
ed to tell her, they were as frank with each other as two 
children ; it was because he thought she would not un- 
derstand it. 

" I do not like Mr. Walters," she said, one day, 

"He was very much liked at the Point, I assure you," 
said East, with significant emphasis, ' ' By the ladies, 
I mean, who come there in the summer," 

"How could they like him, with that important, ego- 
tistical air ?" 

" But it is to conquer him they like," said Tita, look- 
ing up from her corner, 

"Hear the child!" said East, laughing. "Are you 
going to conquer, Tita?" 

"Yes," said Tita, stroking the cat which shared the cor« 



ANNE. 53 

ner with her — a soft-coated yellow pussy that was gen- 
erall}^ sleepy and quiet, but which had, nevertheless, at 
times, extraordinary fits of galloping round in a circle, 
and tearing the bark from the trees as though she was 
possessed— an eccentricity of character which the boys 
attributed to the direct influence of Satan. 

Miss Lois lived in the church-house. It was an ugly- 
house; but then, as is often said of a plain woman, "so 
good!" It did not leak or rattle, or fall down or smoke, 
or lean or sag, as did most of the other houses in the 
village, in regard to their shingles, their shutters, their 
chimneys, their side walls, and their roof -trees. It stood 
straightly and squarely on its stone foundation, and 
every board, nail, and latch was in its proper position. 
Years before, missionaries had been sent from New Eng- 
land to work among the Indians of this neighborhood, 
who had obtained their ideas of Christianity, up to that 
time, solely from the Roman Catholic priests, who had 
succeeded each other in an unbroken line from that ad- 
venturous Jesuit, the first explorer of these inland seas, 
Father Marquette. The Presbyterians came, established 
their mission, built a meeting-house, a school-house, and 
a house for their pastor, the buildings being as solid as 
their belief. Money was collected for this enterprise from 
all over New England, that old-time, devout, self-sacrific- 
ing community whose sternness and faith were equal; 
tall spare men came westward to teach the Indians, ear- 
nest women with bright steadfast eyes and lath-like forms 
were their aiders, wives, and companions. Among these 
came Miss Lois — then young. Lois Hinsdale — carried 
Westward by an aunt whose missionary zeal was burn- 
ing splendidly up an empty chimney which might have 
been filled with family loves and cares, but was not : shall 
we say better filled? The missionaries worked faithful- 
ly ; but, as the Indians soon moved further westward, the 
results of their efforts can not be statistically estimated 
now, or the accounts balanced. 

"The only good Indian is a dead Indian," is a re- 
mark that crystallizes the floating opinion of the border. 
But a border population has not a missionary spirit. 



54 ANNE. 

New England, having long ago chased out, shot down, 
and exterminated all her own Indians, had become peace- 
ful and pious, and did not agree with these Western 
carriers of shot-guns. Still, when there w^ere no more 
Indians to come to this island school, it was of necessity 
closed, no matter which side was right. There were still 
numbers of Chippewas living on the other islands and on 
the mainland ; but they belonged to the Eoman Catho- 
lic faith, and were under the control of Pere Michaux. 

The Protestant church — a square New England meet- 
ing-house, with steeple and bell — was kept open during 
another year; but the congregation grew so small that 
at last knowledge of the true state of affairs reached the 
Nevf England purses, and it was decided that the minis- 
ter in charge should close this mission, and go south- 
ward to a more promising field among the prairie settlers 
of Illinois. All the teachers connected with the Indian 
school had departed before this — all save Miss Lois and 
her aunt; for Priscilla Hinsdale, stricken down by her 
own intense energy, which had consumed her as an in- 
ward fire, was now confined to her bed, partially para- 
lyzed. The New England w^oman had sold her farm, 
and put almost all her little store of money into island 
property. "I shall live and die here," she had said; 
' ' I have found my life-work. " But her w^ork went away 
from her; her class of promising squaws departed w^ith 
their pappooses and their braves, and left her scholar- 
less. 

"With all the blessed religious privileges they have 
here, besides other advantages, I can not at all understand 
it — I can not understand it," she repeated many times, 
especially to Sandy Forbes, an old Scotchman and ferv- 
ent singer of psalms. 

"Aweel, aweel, Miss Priscilla, I donnot suppose ye 
can," replied Sandy, with a momentary twinkle in his old 
eyes. 

While still hesitating over her future course, illness 
struck dow^n the old maid, and her life-w^ork was at last 
decided for her : it was merely to lie in bed, motionless, 
winter and summer, with folded hands and whatever 



ANNE. 55 

resignation she was able to muster. Niece Lois, hitherto 
a satellite, now assumed the leadership. This would 
seem a simple enough charge, the household of two 
women, poor in purse, in a remote village on a Northern 
frontier. But exotics of any kind require nursing and 
vigilance, and the Hinsdale household was an exotic. 
Miss Priscilla required that every collar should be starch- 
ed in the New England fashion, that every curtain should 
fall in New England folds, that every dish on the table 
should be of New England origin, and that every clock 
should tick with New England accuracy. Lois had 
known no other training; and remembering as she did 
also the ways of the old home among the New Hampshire 
hills with a child's fidelity and affection, she went even 
beyond her aunt in faithfulness to her ideal ; and although 
the elder woman had long been dead, the niece never 
varied the habits or altered the rules of the house which 
was now hers alone. 

"A little New England homestead strangely set up 
here on this far Western island,'* William Douglas had 
said. 

The church house, as the villagers named it, was built 
by the Presbyterian missionaries, many of them laboring 
with their own hands at the good work, seeing, no doubt, 
files of Indian converts rising up in another world to call 
them blessed. When it came into the hands of Miss Pris- 
cilla, it came, therefore, ready-made as to New England 
ideas of rooms and closets, and only required a new ap- 
plication of white and green paint to become for her an 
apx^ropriate and rectangular bower. It stood near the 
closed meeting-house, whose steeple threw a slow-moving 
shadow across its garden, like a great sun-dial, all day. 
Miss Lois had charge of the key of the meeting-house, and 
often she unlocked its door, went in, and walked up and 
down the aisle, as if to revive the memories of the past. 
She remembered the faith and sure hope that used to fill 
the empty spaces, and shook her head and sighed. Then 
she upbraided herself for sighing, and sang in her thin 
husky voice softly a verse or two of one of their old psalms 
by way of reparation. She sent an annual report of the 



56 ANNE. 

condition of the building to the Presbyterian Board of 

Missions, but in it said nothing of the small repairs for 
which her own i)urse paid. Was it a silent way of mak- 
ing amends to the old walls for having deserted their 
tenets ? 

"Cod-fish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of 
course," said Miss Lois, "and fried hasty-pudding. On 
Wednesdays a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Sat- 
urdays." 

The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion*, 
three times each week every room in the house was swept, 
and the floors as well as the furniture dusted. Beans 
were baked in an earthen pot on Saturday night, and 
sweet-cake was made on Thursday. Past Pronando often 
dropi^ed in to tea on Thursday. Winter or summer, 
through scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her es- 
tablished routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to 
the idle and shiftless. And certainly she was a faithful 
guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious and 
systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no 
French-blooded, French-hearted j^erson will ever travel, 
unless dragged by force. The villagers preferred their 
lake trout to Miss Lois's salt cod-fish, their savory stews 
and soups to her corned beef, tlieir tartines to her corn- 
meal puddings, and their eau-de-vie to her green tea ; they 
loved their disorder and their comfort ; her bar soap and 
scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes. They wash- 
ed the household clothes two or three times a year: was 
not that enough ? Of what use the endless labor of this 
sharp-nosed woman with glasses over her eyes at the 
church-house ? Were not, perhaps, the glasses the con- 
sequences of such toil ? And her figure of a long lean- 
ness also ? 

The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss 
Lois's life in her persistent effort to employ Indian serv- 
ants. The old mission had been established for their con- 
version and education; any descendant of that mission, 
therefore, should continue to the utmost of her ability the 
beneficent work. The meeting-house was closed, the 
school-house abandoned, she could reach the native race 



ANNE. 57 

by no other influence save personal ; that personal influ- 
ence, then, she would use. Through long years had she 
persisted, through long years would she continue to per- 
sist. A succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and 
skirmished their w^ay through her kitchen with various 
degrees of success, generally in the end departing sudden- 
ly at night with whatever booty they could lay their hands 
on. It is but justice to add, however, that this was not 
much, a rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevail- 
ing in the well-watched household. Miss Lois's con- 
science would not allow her to employ half-breeds, who 
were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she 
said, that she should have full-blooded natives. And she 
had them. She always began to teach them the alphabet 
within three days after tlieir arrival, and the spectacle of 
a tearful, freshly caught Indian girl, very wretched in 
her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the ways 
of the kettles and brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and 
appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large 
alphabet on the well-scoured table, and Miss Lois by her 
side with a pointer, was frequent and even regular in its 
occurrence, the only change being in the personality of 
the learners. No one of them had ever gone through the 
letters; but Miss liois was not discouraged. Patiently 
she began over again — she was always beginning over 
again . And in the mean time she was often obliged not 
only to do almost all the household work with her own 
hands, but to do it twice over in order to instruct the new- 
comer. By the un^vritten law of public opinion. Dr. 
Gaston was obliged to employ only Protestant servants ; 
by the unwritten law of her own conscience. Miss Lois 
was obliged to employ only Indians. But in truth she 
did not employ them so much as they emploj^ed her. 

Miss Lois received her young friends in the sitting- 
room. There was a parlor with Brussels carpet and 
hair-cloth sofa across the hall, but its blinds were closed, 
and its shades drav/n down. The parlor of middle-class 
households in the cold climate of the Northern States 
generally is a consecrated apartment, with the chill at- 
mosphere and much of the solemnity of a tomb. It may 



58 ANNE. 

be called the high altar of the careful housewife; but 
even here her sense of cleanliness and dustless perfec- 
tion is such that she keeps it cold. No sacred fire burns, 
no cheerful ministry is allowed; everything is silent and 
veiled. The apartment is of no earthly use — nor heaven- 
ly, save perhaps for ghosts. But take it away, and the 
housewife is miserable ; leave it, and she lives on content- 
edly in her sitting-room all the year round, knowing it is 
there. 

Miss Lois's sitting-room was cheery ; it had a rag-carpet, 
a bright fire, and double-glass j)anes instead of the heavy 
woollen curtains which the villagers hung over their 
windows in the Avinter — curtains that kept out the cold, 
but also the light. Miss Lois's curtains were of white 
dimity with knotted fringe, and her walls were freshly 
whitewashed. Her framed sampler, and a memorial pic- 
ture done with pen and ink, representing two weeping- 
willows overshadowing a tombstone, ornamented the high 
mantel-piece, and there were also two gayly colored china 
jars filled with dried rose-leaves. Thej^ were only wild- 
brier roses; the real roses, as she called them, grew but 
reluctantly in this Northern air. Miss Lois never loved 
the wild ones as she had loved the old-fashioned cinna- 
mon-scented pink and damask roses of her youth, but she 
gathered and dried these leaves of the brier from habit. 
There was also hanging on the wall a looking-glass tilted 
forward at such an angle that the looker-in could see only 
his feet, with a steep ascent of carpet going up hill behind 
him. This looking-glass possessed a brightly hued picture 
at the top, divided into two compartments, on one side 
a lovely lady with a large bonnet modestly concealing 
her face, very bare shoulders, leg-of-mutton sleeves, and 
a bag hanging on her arm ; on the other old Father Time, 
scythe in hand, as if he was intended as a warning to the 
lovely lady that minutes were rapid and his stroke sure. 

" Why do you keep your glass tilted forward so far that 
we can not look in it, Miss Lois V Rast had once asked. 

Miss Lois did it from habit. But she answered : " To 
keep silly girls from looking at themselves while they are 
pretending to talk to me. They say something, and then 



ANNE. 



59 



raise tlieir eyes quickly to see how they looked when they 
said it. I have known them keep a smile or a particular 
expression half a minute while they studied the effect — 
ridiculous calves !" 

" Calves have lovely eyes sometimes," said Rast. 

' ' Did I say the girls were ugly, Master Pert ? But the 
homely girls look too." 

" Perhaps to see how they can improve themselves." 

' ' Perhaps, " said the old maid, dryly. ' ' Pity they nev- 
er learn !" 

In the sitting-room was a high chest of drawers, an old 
clock, a chintz-covered settle, and two deep narrow old 
I'ocking-chairs, intended evidently for scant skirts; on an 
especial table was the family Bible, containing the record 
of the Hinsdale family from the date of the arrival of the 
Mayfloiver. Miss Lois's prayer-book was not there ; it was 
up stairs in a bureau drawer. It did not seem to belong 
to the old-time furniture of the rooms below, nor to the 
Hinsdale Bible. 

The story of Miss Lois's change from the Puritan to the 
Episcopal ritual might to-day fill a volume if written by 
one of those brooding, self-searching woman-minds of 
New England — those unconscious, earnest egotists who 
bring forth poetry beautiful sometimes to inspiration, 
but always purely subjective. And if in such a volume 
the feelings, the arguments, and the change were all re- 
presented as sincere, conscientious, and prayerful, they 
would be represented with entire truth. Nevertheless, 
so complex are the influences which move our lives, and 
so deep the under-powers which we ourselves may not 
always recognize, that it could be safely added by a man 
of the world as a comment that Lois Hinsdale would 
never have felt these changes, these doubts, these con- 
flicts, if William Douglas had not been of another creed. 
For in those days Douglas had a creed — the creed of his 
young bride. 

' ' Miss Hinsdale, we have come to offer you our New- 
Year's good wishes," said East, taking off his cap and 
making a ceremonious bow. "Our equipage will wait 
outside. How charming is your apartment, madam! 



60 ANNE. 

And yourself — how Minerva-like the gleam of the eye, 
the motion of the hand, which — " 

"Which made the pies now cooling in the pantry, 
East Pronando, to whose fragrance, I presume, I owe the 
honor of this visit." 

' ' Not for myself, dear madam, hut for Anne. She has 
already confided to me that she feels a certain sinking 
sensation that absolutely requires the strengthening in- 
fluence of pie." 

Anne laughed. "Are you going to stay long?" she 
asked, still standing at the doorway. 

"Certainly," replied Rast, seating himself in one of the 
narrow rocking-chairs ; "I have a number of subjects to 
discuss with our dear Miss Lois." 

' ' Then I will leave you here, for Tita is waiting for me. 
I have x^romised to take them all over to Pere Michaux's 
house this afternoon," 

Miss Lois groaned — two short abrupt groans on differ- 
ent keys. 

"Have you ? Then I'm going too," said Rast, rising. 

" Oh no, Rast; x)lease do not," said the girl, earnestly. 
" When you go, it is quite a different thing — a frolic al- 
ways." 

"And why not ?" said Rast. 

" Because the children go for religious instruction, as 
you well know ; it is their faith, and I feel that I ought 
to give them such opportunities as I can to learn what it 
means." 

"It means mummery!" said Miss Lois, loudly and 
sternly. 

Anne glanced toward her old friend, but stood her 
ground firmly. ' ' I must take them , " she said ; " I prom- 
ised I would do so as long as they were children, and 
under my care. When they are older they can choose 
for themselves." 

' ' To whom did you make that promise, Anne Douglas ?" 

"ToPereMichaux." 

"And you call yourself a Protestant !" 

"Yes; but I hope to keep a promise too, dear Miss 
Lois." 



ANNE. 61 

" Why was it ever made ?" 

" Pere Micliaux required it, and — father allowed it." 

Miss Lois rubbed her forehead, settled her spectacles 
with her first and third fingers, shook her head briskly 
once or twice to see if they were firmly in place, and then 
went on with her knitting-. What William Douglas al- 
lowed, how could she disallow ? 

East, standing by Anne's side jDutting on his fur gloves, 
showed no disposition to yield. 

"Please do not come, Rast," said the girl again, lay- 
ing her hand on his arm. 

"I shall go to take care of you." 

"It is not necessary; we have old Antoine and his 
dogs, and the boys are to have a sled of their own. We 
shall be at home before dark, I think, and if not, the moon 
to-night is full." 

"But I shall go," said East 

' ' Nonsense !" said Miss Lois. ' ' Of course you will not 
go; Anne is right. You romp and make mischief with 
those children always. Behave now, and you shall come 
back this evening, and Anne shall come too, and we will 
have apples and nuts and gingerbread, and Anne shall 
recite." 

' ' Will you, Annet ? I will yield if you promise. " 

" If I must, I must," said Anne, reluctantly. 

"Go, then, proud maid; speed upon your errand. 
And in the mean time, Miss Lois, something fragrant 
and spicy in the way of a reward now would not come 
amiss, and then some music." 

Among the i30Ssessions which Miss Lois had inherited 
from her aunt was a small piano. The elder Miss Hins- 
dale, sent into the world with an almost Italian love of 
music, found herself unable to repress it even in cold New 
England; turning it, therefore, into the channel of the 
few stunted psalms and hymns and spiritual songs of 
the day, she indulged it in a cramped fashion, like a 
full-flowing stream shut off and made to turn a mill. 
When the missionary spirit seized her in its fiery whirl- 
wind, she bargained w4th it mentally that her piano 
should be included ; she represented to the doubting eld; 



62 ANNE. 

er that it would be au instrument of great power among 
the savages, and that even David himself accompanied 
the psalms with a well-stringed harp. The elder still 
doubted; he liked a tuning-fork; and besides, the money 
which Miss Priscilla would pay for the transportation 
of "the instrument" was greatly needed for boots for 
the young men. But as Miss Priscilla was a free agent, 
and quite determined, he finally decided, like many 
another leader, to allow what he could not prevent, 
and the piano came. It was a small, old-fashioned instru- 
ment, which had been kept in tune by Dr. Douglas, and 
through long years the inner life of Miss Lois, her hopes, 
asj)irations, and disappointments, had found expression 
through its keys. It was a curious sight to see the old 
maid sitting at her piano alone on a stormy evening, 
the doors all closed, the shutters locked, no one stirring 
in the church-house save herself. Her playing was old- 
fashioned, her hands stiff; she could not improvise, and 
the range of the music she knew was small and narrow, 
yet unconsciously it served to her all the purposes of 
emotional expression. When she was sad, she played 
"China"; when she was hopeful, "Coronation." She 
made the bass heavy in dejection, and played the air in 
octaves when cheerful. She played only when she was 
entirely alone. The old piano was the only confidant 
of the hidden remains of youthful feeling buried in her 
heart. 

East played on the piano and the violin in an untrain- 
ed fashion of liis own, and Anne sang; they often had 
small concerts in Miss Lois's parlor. But a greater en- 
tertainment lay in Anne's recitations. These were all 
from Shakspeare. Not in vain had the chaplain kept 
her tied to its pages year after year; she had learned, 
almost unconsciously, as it were, large portions of the 
immortal text by heart, and had formed her own ideals 
of the characters, who were to her real persons, although 
as different from flesh-and-blood people as are the phan- 
toms of a dream. They were like spirits who came at 
her call, and lent her their personality^; she could identi- 
fy herself with them for the time being so completely, 




LOIS HINSDALE. 



ANNE. 63 

throw herself into the bodies and minds she had con- 
structed for them so entirely, that the effect was startling", 
and all the more so because her conceptions of the char- 
acters were girlish and utterly different from those that 
have ruled the dramatic stage for generations. Her 
ideas of Juliet, of Ophelia, of Rosalind, and Cleopatra 
w^ere her own, and she never varied them ; the very ear- 
nestness of her personations made the effect all the more 
extraordinary. Dr. Gaston had never heard these reci- 
tations of his pupil ; William Douglas had never heard 
them ; either of these men could have corrected her errors 
and explained to her her mistakes. She herself thought 
them too trifling for their notice ; it was only a way she 
had of amusing herself. Even Rast, her playmate, found 
it out by chance, coming upon her among the cedars one 
day when she was Ophelia, and overhearing her speak 
several lines before she saw him ; he immediately consti- 
tuted himself an audience of one, with, however, the per- 
emptory manners of a throng, and demanded to hear all 
she knew. Poor Anne ! the great plays of the world had 
been her fairy tales; she knew no others. She went 
through her personations timidly, the wild forest her 
background, the open air and blue Straits her scenery. 
The audience found fault, but, on the whole, enjoyed the 
performance, and demanded frequent repetitions. After 
a while Miss Lois was admitted into the secret, and dis- 
approved, and was curious, and listened, and shook her 
head, but ended by liking the portraitures, which were in 
truth as fantastic as phantasmagoria. Miss Lois had 
never seen a play or read a novel in her life. For some 
time the forest continued Anne's theatre, and more than 
once Miss Lois had taken afternoon walks, for which her 
conscience troubled her : she could not decide whether it 
was right or wrong. But winter came, and gradually 
it grew into a habit that Anne should recite at the church- 
house now and then, the Indian servant who happened 
to be at that time the occupant of the kitchen being 
sent carefully away for the evening, in order that her eye 
should not be guiltily glued to the key-hole during the 
exciting visits of Ophelia and Juliet. Anne was always 



64 ANNE. 

reluctant to give tliese recitations now that she had an 
audience. ' ' Out in the woods, " she said, ' ' I had only the 
trees and the silence. I never thought of myself at all." 

' ' But Miss Lois and I are as handsome as trees ; and as 
to silence, we never say a word," rej)lied East. '" Come, 
Annet, you know you like it." 

"Yes; in — in one way I do." 

"Then let us take that way," said Hast. 



Chapter IV. 

— '* Sounding names as any on the page of history — Lake Winnipeg; 
Hudson Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable ; Chipeways, Gens de 
Terre, Les Pilleurs, tlie Weepers, and the Hke. An immense, shaggy, 
but sincere country, adorned with chains of lakes and rivers, covered 
with snows, with hemlocks and fir-trees. Tliere is a naturalness in this 
traveller, and an unpretcndingness, as in a Canadian winter, where life 
is preserved through low temperature and frontier dangers by furs, and 
within a stout heart. He has truth and moderation worthy of the father 
of history, which belong only to an intimate experience ; and he does 
not defer much to literature." — Tiioreau. 

Immediately after the early dinner the little cavalcade 
set out for the hermitage of Pere Michaux, which was on 
an island of its own at some distance from the village 
island ; to reach it they journeyed over the ice. The boys' 
sled went first, Andre riding, the other two drawing : they 
were to take turns. Then came old Antoine and his dogs, 
wise-looking, sedate creatures with wide-spread, awkward 
legs, big paws, and toes turned in. Rene and Lebeau 
were the leaders ; they were dogs of age and character, 
and as they guided the sledge they also kept an eye to 
the younger dogs behind. The team was a local one; 
it was not employed in carrying the mails, but was used 
by the villagers when they crossed to the various islands, 
the fishing grounds, or the Indian villages on the main 
land. Old Antoine walked behind with Anne by his side : 
she preferred to walk. Snugly ensconced in the sledge 
in a warm nest of furs was Tita, nothing visible of her 
small self save her dark eyes, which were, however, most 
of the time closed : here tliere was nothino- to watch. The 



ANNE. 



65 



bells oil the dogs sounded out merrily in the clear air: 
the boys had also adorned themselves with bells, and 
pranced along like colts. The sunshine was intensely 
bright, the blue heavens seemed full of its shafts, the 
ice below glittered in shining lines; on the north and 
south the dark evergreens of the mainland rose above the 
white, but toward the east and w^est the fields of ice ex- 
tended unbroken over the edge of the horizon. Here 
they were smooth, covered with snow ; there they were 
heaped in hummocks and ridges, huge blocks piled against 
each other, and frozen solid in that position where the 
Avind and the current had met and fought. The at- 
mosphere was cold, but so pure and still that breathing 
was easier than in many localities farther toward the 
south. There was no dampness, no strong raw wdnd; 
only the even cold. A feather thrown from a house-tox^ 
would have dropped softly to the ground in a straight 
line, as drop one by one the broad leaves of the sycamore 
on still Indian summer days. The snow itself was dry ; 
it had fallen at intervals during the winter, and made 
thicker and thicker the soft mantle that covered the wa- 
ter and land. When the flakes came down, the villagers 
alw^ays knew that it was w^armer, for when the clouds 
were steel-bound, the snow could not fall. 

"I think we shall have snow again to-morrow^," said 
old Antoine in his voyageur dialect. "Step forward, 
then, genteelly, Rene. Hast thou no conscience, Le- 
beau ?" 

The two dogs, w^hose attention had been a little distract- 
ed by the backAvard vision of Andre conveying something 
to his mouth, returned to their duty with a jerk, and the 
other dogs behind all rang their little bells suddenly as 
they felt the swerve of the leaders back into the track. 
For there was a track over the ice toward Pere Michaux's 
island, and another stretching off due eastward — the path 
of the carrier who brought the mails from below ; besides 
these there were no other ice-roads; the Indians and 
hunters came and went as the bird flies. Pere Michaux's 
island was not in sight from the village; it was, as the 
boys said, i ound the corner. When they had turned this 

5 



QQ ANNE. 

point, and no longer saw the mission church, the little 
fort, and the ice-covered piers, when there was nothing 
on the shore side save wild clilfs crowned with ever- 
greens, then before them rose a low island with its bare 
summer trees, its one weather-beaten house, a straight 
line of smoke coming from its chimney. It was still a 
mile distant, but the boys ran along with new vigor. No 
one wished to ride ; Andre, leaving his place, took hold 
with the others, and the empty sled went on toward the 
hermitage at a fine pace. 

"You could repose yourself there, mademoiselle, " said 
Antoine, who never tiioroughly approved the walking 
upon her own two feet kept up — nay, even enjoyed — by 
this vigorous girl at his side. Tita's ideas were more to 
his mind. 

' ' But I like it, " said Anne, smiling. ' ' It makes me feel 
warm and strong, all awake and joyous, as though I had 
just heard some delightful news." 

' ' But the delightful news in reality, mademoiselle — one 
hears not much of it up here, as I say to Jacqueline." 

"Look at the sky, the ice-fields ; that is news every day, 
newly beautiful, if we will only look at it." 

' ' Does mademoiselle think, then, that the ice is beau- 
tiful?" 

"Very beautiful," replied the girl. 

The cold air had brought the blood to her cheeks, a 
gleaming light to her strong, fearless eyes that looked the 
sun in the face without quailing. Old Antoine caught the 
idea for the first time that she might, perhaps, be beautiful 
some day, and that night, before his fire, he repeated the 
idea to his wife. 

"Bah!" said old Jacqueline; "that is one great error 
of yours, my friend. Have you turned blind ?" 

" I did not mean beautiful in my eyes, of course; but 
one kind of beauty pleases me, thank the saints, and that 
is, without doubt, your own," replied the Frenchman, 
bowing toward his withered, bright-eyed old spouse with 
courtly gravity. ' ' But men of another race, now, like 
those who come here in the summer, might they not tliink 
her pat;sable ?" 



ANNE. 07 

But old Jacqueline, although mollified, would not ad- 
mit even this. A good young lady, and kind, it was to be 
hoped she would be content with the graces of piety, since 
she had not those of the other sort. Religion was all- 
merciful. 

The low island met the lake without any broken ice 
at its edge; it rose slightly from the beach in a gentle 
slope, the snow-path leading directly up to the house door. 
The sound of the bells brought Pere Michaux himself 
to the entrance. "Enter, then, my children," he said; 
"and you, Antoine, take the dogs round to the kitchen. 
Pierre is there." 

Pierre was a French cook. Neither conscience nor con- 
gregation requiring that Pere Michaux should nourish 
his inner man with half-baked or cindered dishes, he en- 
joyed to the full the skill and affection of this small-sized 
old Frenchman, who, while learning in his youth the 
rules, exceptions, and sauces of his ]3rofession, became 
the victim of black melancholy on account of a certain 
Denise, fair but cold-hearted, who, being employed in a 
conservatory, should have been warmer. Perhaps De- 
nise had her inner fires, but they emitted no gleam to- 
ward poor Pierre ; and at last, after spoiling two break- 
fasts and a dinner, and drav/ing down upon himself the 
epithet of "imbecile," the sallow little apprentice aban- 
doned Paris, and in a fit of despair took passage for 
America, very much as he might have taken passage for 
Hades via the charcoal route. Having arrived in New 
York, instead of seeking a place where his knowledge, 
small as it was, would have been prized by exiled French- 
men in a sauceless land, the despairing, obstinate little 
cook allowed himself to drift into all sorts of incongruous 
situations, and at last enlisted in the United States army, 
where, as he could play the flute, he was speedily placed 
in special service as member of the band. Poor Pierre ! 
his flute sang to him only "Denise! Denise!" But the 
band-master thought it could sing other tunes as well, 
and set him to work with the score before him. It waa 
vv^hile miserably performing his part in company with six 
placid Germans that Pere Michaux first saw poor Pierre, 



68 ANNE. 

and recognizing a compatriot, spoke to him. Struck by 
the x^athetic misery of his face, he asked a few questions 
of the little flute-player, listened to his story, and gave 
him the comfort and help of sympathy and shillings, to- 
gether with the sound of the old home accents, sweetest 
of all to the dulled ears. When the time of enlistment 
expired, Pierre came westward after his jDriest : Pere Mi- 
chaux had written to him once or twice, and the ex-cook 
had preserved the letters as a guide-book. He showed 
the heading and the postmark wlienever he was at a loss, 
and travelled blindly on, handed from one railway con- 
ductor to another like a piece of animated luggage, un- 
til at last he was put on board of a steamer, and, with 
some difficulty, carried westward ; for the sight of the 
water had convinced him that he was to be taken on 
some unknown and terrible voyage. 

The good priest was surj)rised and touched to see the 
tears of the little man, stained, weazened, and worn with 
travel and grief; he took him over to the hermitage in 
his sharp-x^ointed boat, which skimmed the crests of the 
waves, the two sails wing-and-wing, and Pierre sat in the 
bottom, and held on with a death-grasp. As soon as his 
foot touched the shore, he declared, with regained fluency, 
that he would never again enter a boat, large or small, 
as long as he lived. He never did. In vain Pere Mi- 
chaux represented to him that he could earn more mon- 
ey in a city, in vain he offered to send him Eastward and 
place him with kind persons speaking his own tongue, 
who would x3rocure a good situation for him ; Pierre was 
obstinate. He listened, assented to all, but when the 
time came refused to go. 

' ' Are you or are you not going to send us that cook 
of yours ?" wrote Father George at the end of two years. 
"This is the fifth time I have made ready for him." 

"He will not go," rexflied Pere Michaux at last; "it 
seems tliat I must resign myself." 

" If your'Pere Michaux is handsomer than I am," said 
Dr. Gaston one day to Anne, "it is because he has had 
something x^alatable to eat all this time. In a long course 
of years saleratus tells." 



ANNE. 6V) 

Pere Micliaux was indeed a man of noble bearing ; liia 
face, althoug-h benign, wore an expression of authority, 
wliicli came from tlie submissive obedience of his flock, 
who loved him as a father and revered him as a pope. 
His parish, a diocese in size, extended over the long point 
of the soutliern mainland ; over the many islands of the 
Straits, large and small, some of them unnoted on the map, 
yet inhabited perhaps by a few half-breeds, others dotted 
with Indian farms ; over the village itself, where stood the 
small weather-beaten old Church of St. Jean ; and over 
the dim blue line of northern coast, as far as eye could 
reach or priest could go. His roadways were over the 
water, his carriage a boat ; in the winter, a sledge. He 
was priest, bishop, governor, judge, and physician; his 
word was absolute. His party-colored flock referred all 
their disputes to him, and abided by his decisions — ques- 
tions of fishing-nets as well as questions of conscience, 
cases of jealousy together with cases of fever. He stood 
alone. He was not ^Dropped. He had the rare leader's 
mind. Thrown away on that wild Northern border ? 
Not any more than Bishop Chase in Ohio, Cai)tain John 
Smith in Virginia, or other versatile and autocratic pio- 
neers. Many a man can lead in cities and in camps, 
among precedents and rules, but only a born leader can 
lead in a wilderness where he must make his own rules 
and be his own precedent every hour. 

The dogs trotted cheerfully, with all their bells ring- 
ing, round to the back door. Old Pierre detested dogs, 
yet always fed them with a strange sort of conscientious- 
ness, partly from compassion, partly from fear. He could 
never accustom himself to the trains. To draw, he said, 
was an undoglike thing. To see the creatures rush by 
the island on a moonlight night over the white ice, like 
iogs of a dream, was enough to make the hair elevate it- 
self. 

' ' Whose hair ?" Past had demanded. ' ' Yours, or the 
dogs' ?" For young Pronando was a frequent visitor at 
the hermitage, not as pupil or member of the flock, but 
as a candid young friend, admiring impartially both the 
priest and his cook. 



70 ANNK 

"Hast thou brought me again all those wide-mouthed 
dogs, brigands of unheard-of and never-to-be-satisfied 
emptiness, robbers of all things ?" demanded Pierre, ap- 
pearing at the kitchen door, ladle in hand. Antoine's 
leathery cheeks wrinkled themselves into a grin as he 
unharnessed his team, all the dogs pawing and howl- 
ing, and striving to be first at the entrance of this do- 
main of plenty. 

'*Hold thyself quiet, Rene. Wilt thou take the very 
sledge in, Lebeau ?" he said, apostrophizing the leaders. 
But no sooner was the last strap loosened than all the 
dogs by common consent rushed at and over the little 
cook and into the kitchen in a manner which would have 
insured them severe chastisement in any other kitchen 
in the diocese. Pierre darted about among their gaunt 
yellow bodies, railing at them for knocking down his 
pans, and calling upon all the saints to witness their ra- 
pacity ; but in the mean time he was gathering togeth- 
er quickly fragments of whose choice and savory quali- 
ties Rene and Lebeau had distinct remembrance, and the 
other dogs anticipation. They leaped and danced round 
him on their awkward legs and shambling feet, bit and 
barked at each other, and rolled on the floor in a heap. 
Anywhere else the long whip would have curled round 
their lank ribs, but in old Pierre's kitchen they knew 
they were safe. With a fiercely delivered and eloquent 
selection from the strong expressions current in the Paris 
of his youth, the little cook made his way through the 
enarling throng of yellow backs and legs, and emptied 
his j)an of fragments on the snow outside. Forth rush- 
ed the dogs, and cast themselves in a solid mass ux)on 
the little heap. 

"Hounds of Satan V said Pierre. 

"They are, indeed," replied Antoine. "But leave 
them now, my friend, and close the door, since warmth is 
31 blessed gift." 

But Pierre still stood on the threshold, every now and 
then darting out to administer a rap to the gluttons, or 
to pull forward the younger and weaker ones. He pre- 
Bided with exactest justice over the whole repast, and 



ANNE. 71 

ended by bringing into the kitchen a forlorn and drear- 
ily ugly young animal that had not obtained his share 
on account of the preternaturally quick side snatchings 
of Lebeau. To this dog he now presented an especial 
banquet in an earthen dish behind the door. 

"If there is anything I abhor, it is the animal called 
dog," he said, seating himself at last, and wiping his 
forehead. 

' ' That is plainly evident, " replied old Antoine, gravely. 

In the mean time, Anne, Tita, and the boys had thrown 
off their fur cloaks, and entered the sitting-room. Pere 
Michaux took his seat in his large arm-chair near the 
hearth, Tita curled herself on a cushion at his feet, and 
the boys sat together on a wooden bench, fidgeting un- 
easily, and trying to recall a faint outline of their last 
lesson, while Anne talked to the priest, warming first one 
of her shapely feet, then the other, as she leaned against 
the mantel, inquiring after the health of the birds, the 
squirrels, the fox, and the tame eagle, Pere Michaux's com- 
panions in his hermitage. The appearance of the room 
was peculiar, yet picturesque and full of comfort. It v/as 
a long, low apartment, the v^alls made warm in the Vv^in- 
ter with skins instead of tapestry, and the floor carpeted 
with blankets ; other skins lay before the table and fire as 
mats. The furniture w^as rude, but cushioned and dec- 
orated, as were likewise the curtains, in a fashion unique, 
by the hands of half-breed women, who had vied with 
each other in the work ; their primitive embroidery, 
whose long stjtches sx^rang to the centre of the curtain 
or cushion, like the rays of a rising sun, and then back 
again, was as unlike modern needle-work as the vase-pic- 
tured Egyptians, with eyes in the sides of their heads, are 
like a modern photograph ; their patterns, too, had come 
down from the remote ages of the world called the New, 
which is, however, as old as the continent across the seas. 
Guns and fishing-tackle hung over the mantel, a lamp 
swung from the centre of the ceiling, little singing-birds 
flew into and out of their open cages near the windows, 
and the tame eagle sat solemnly on his perch at the far 
end of the long room. The squirrels and the fox were 



72 ANNE. 

visible in their quarters, peeping out at the new-comers ; 
but their front doors were barred, for they had broken 
parole, and were at present in disgrace. The ceiling was 
planked with wood, which had turned to a dark cinna- 
mon hue ; the broad windows let in the sunshine on three 
sides during the day, and at night were covered with 
heavy curtains, all save one, which had but a single 
thickness of red cloth over the glass, with a candle behind 
which burned all night, so that the red gleam shone far 
across the ice, like a winter light-house for the frozen 
Straits. More than one despairing man, lost in the cold 
and darkness, had caught its ray, and sought refuge, with 
a thankful heart. The broad deep fire-place of this room 
was its glory : the hearts of giant logs glowed there : it was 
a fire to dream of on winter nights, a fire to paint on can- 
vas for Christmas pictures to hang on the walls of barren 
furnace-heated houses, a fire to remember before that 
noisome thing, a close stove. Round this fire-place 
were set like tiles rude bits of pottery found in the vicin- 
ity, remains of an earlier race, which the half-breeds 
brought to Pere Michaux whenever their ploughs upturn- 
ed them — arrow-heads, shells from the wilder beaches, 
little green pebbles from Isle Royale, agates, and frag- 
ments of fossils, the whole forming a rough mosaic, 
strong in its story of the region. From two high shelves 
the fathers of the Church and the classics of the world 
looked down upon this scene. But Pere Michaux was 
no bookworm; his books were men. The needs and 
faults of his flock absorbed all his days, and, when the 
moon was bright, his evenings also. ' ' Tliere goes Pere 
Michaux," said the half-breeds, as the broad sail of his 
boat went gleaming by in the summer night, or the sound 
of his sledge bells came through their closed doors; "he 
has been to see the dying wife of Jean," or "to carry 
medicine to Frangois. " On the wild nights and the dark 
nights, ¥/'hen no one could stir abroad, the old priest 
lighted his lamp, and fed his mind with its old-time nour- 
ishment. But he had nothing modern ; no newspapers. 
The nation was to him naught. He was one of a small 
but distinctly marked class in America that have a dis- 



ANNE. 73 

taste for and disbelief in the present, its ideals, tliouglits, 
and actions, and turn for relief to tlie past ; they repre- 
sent a reaction. This class is made up of foreigners like 
the priest, of native-born citizens with artistic tastes who 
have lived much abroad, modern Tories who regret the 
Revolution, High-Church Episcopalians who would like 
archbishops and an Establishment, restless politicians who 
seek an empire — in all, a very small number compared 
with the mass of the nation at large, and not important 
enough to be counted at all numerically, yet not without 
its influence. And not without its use too, its members 
serving their country, unconsciously perhaps, but power- 
fully, by acting as a balance to the self -asserting blatant 
conceit of the young nation — a drag on the wheels of 
its too-rapidly speeding car. They are a sort of Mordecai 
at the gate, and are no more disturbed than he was by be- 
ing in a minority. In any great crisis this element is 
fused w4th the rest at once, and disappears ; but in times 
of peace and prosperity up it comes again, and lifts its 
scornful voice. 

Pere Michaux occupied himself first with the boys. 
The religious education of Louis, Gabriel, and Andre 
was not complex— a few plain rules that three colts could 
have learned almost as well, provided they had had speech. 
But the priest had the rare gift of holding the attention 
of children while he talked with them, and thus the three 
boys learned from him gradually and almost unconscious- 
ly the tenets of the faith in which their young mother 
had lived and died. The rare gift of holding the atten- 
tion of boys — poor Sunday-school teachers all over the 
land, ye know how rare that gift is ! — ye who must keep 
restless little heads and hands quiet while some well- 
meaning but slow, long-winded, four-syllabled man ' ' ad- 
dresses the children. " It is sometimes the superintendent, 
but more frequently a visitor, who beams through his 
spectacles benevolently upon the little flock before him, 
but has no more power over them than a penguin would 
have over a colony of sparrows. 

But if the religion of the boys was simple, that of Tita 
wsiS of a very different nature ; it was as complex, tor- 



74 ANNE. 

tuous, unresting", as personal and minute in detail, as 
some of those religious journals we have all read, diaries 
of every thought, peu-j)hotographs of every mood, won- 
derful to read, but not always comfortable when translated 
into actual life, where something less purely self -engross- 
ed, if even less saintly, is apt to make the household 
wheels run more smoothly. Tita's religious ideas per- 
plexed Anne, angered Miss Lois, and sometimes wearied 
even the priest himself. The little creature aspired to be 
absolutely perfect, and she was perfect in rule and form. 
Whatever was said to her in the way of correction she 
turned and a^d justed to suit herself ; her mental ingenui- 
ty was extraordinary. Anne listened to the child with 
wonder ; but Pere Michaux understood and treated with 
kindly carelessness the strong selfism, which he often en- 
countered among older and deeply devout women, but 
not often in a girl so young. Once the elder sister asked 
with some anxiety if he thought Tita was tending toward 
conventual life. 

' ' Oh no, " replied the old man, smiling ; ' ' anything but 
that." 

' ' But is she not remarkably devout ?" 

*' As Parisiennes in Lent." 

" But it is Lent with her all the year round." 

"That is because she has not seen Paris yet." 

"But we can not take her to Paris," said Anne, in per- 
plexity. 

' ' What should I do if I had to reply to you always, 
mademoiselle ?" said the priest, smiling, and patting her 
head. 

"You mean that I am dull ?" said Anne, a slight flush 
rising in her cheeks. ' ' I have often noticed that peo- 
ple thought me so." 

' ' I mean nothing of the kind. But by the side of your 
honesty we all appear like tapers when the sun breaks in," 
said Pere Michaux, gallantly. Still, Anne could not help 
thinking that he did think her dull. 

To-day she sat by the Avindow, looking out over the ice. 
The boys, dismissed from their bench, had, with the sa- 
gacity of the dogs, gone immediately to the kitchen. The 



ANNE. 



76 



soft voice of Tita was repeating something which sound- 
ed like a litany to the Virgin, full of mystic phrases, a se- 
lection made by the child herself, the priest requiring no 
such recitation, but listening, as usual, patiently, with his 
eye.s half closed, as the old-time school-teacher listened to 
Wirt's description of Blennerhasset's Island. Pere Mi- 
chaux had no mystical tendencies. His life was too busy ; 
in the winter it was too cold, and in the summer the sun- 
shine was too brilliant, on his Northern island, for mysti- 
cal thoughts. At present, through Tita's recitation, his 
mind was occupied with a poor fisherman's family over 
on the mainland, to whom on the morrow he was go- 
ing to send assistance. The three boys came round on 
the outside, and peered through the windows to see wheth- 
er the lesson was finished. Anne ordered them back by 
gesture, for they were bareheaded, and their little faces 
red with the cold. But they pressed their noses against 
the panes, glared at Tita, and shook their fists. "It's 
all ready," they said, in sepulchral tones, putting their 
mouths to the crack under the sash, "and it's a i)udding. 
Tell her to hurry up, Annet." 

But Tita's murmuring voice went steadily on, and the 
Protestant sister would not interrupt the little Catholic's 
recitation ; she shook her head at the boys, and motioned 
to them to go back to the kitchen. But they danced up 
and down to warm themselves, rubbed their little red 
ears with their hands, and then returned to the crack, 
and roared in chorus, "Tell her to hurry up; we shall 
not have time to eat it." 

"True," said Pere Michaux, overhearing this triple 
remonstrance. "That will do for to-day, Tita." 

"But I have not finished, my father." 

" Another time, child." 

" I shall recite it, then, at the next lesson, and learn 
besides as much more; and the interruption was not of 
my making, but a crime of those sacrilegious boys," said 
Tita, gathering her books together. The boys, seeing 
Pere Michaux rise from his chair, ran back round the 
house to announce the tidings to Pierre ; the priest came 
forward to the window. 



76 ANNE. 

"That is the mail-train, is it not ?" said Anne, looking 
at a black spot coming up the Strait from the east. 

"It is due," said Pere Michaux; "but the weather 
has been so cold that I hardly expected it to-day." He 
took down a spy-glass, and looked at the moving speck. 
" Yes, it is the train. I can see the dogs, and Denis 
himself. I will go over to the village with you, I think. 
I expect letters." 

Pere Michaux's correspondence was large. From many 
a college and mission station came letters to this hermit 
of the North, on subjects as various as the writers: the 
flora of the region, its mineralogy, the Indians and their 
history, the lost grave of Father Marquette (in these 
later days said to have been found), the legends of the 
fur-trading times, the existing commerce of the lakes, the 
fisheries, and kindred subjects were mixed with discussions 
kept up with fellow Latin and Greek scholars exiled at 
far-off Southern stations, with games of chess i)layed 
by letter, with recipes for sauces, and with humorous 
skirmishing with New York priests on topics of the day, 
in which the Northern hermit often had the best of it. 

A hurrah in the kitchen, an opening of doors, a clatter- 
ing in the hall, and the boys appeared, followed by old 
Pierre, bearing aloft a pudding enveloj^ed in steam, ex- 
haling fragrance, and beautiful with raisins, currants, 
and citron — rarities regarded by Louis, Gabriel, and Andre 
with eager eyes. 

"But it was for your dinner," said Anne. 

"It is still for my dinner. But it would have lasted 
three days, and now it will end its existence more honor- 
ably in one," replied the priest, beginning to cut generous 
slices, 

Tita was the last to come forward. She felt herself 
obliged to set down all the marks of her various recita- 
tions in a small note-book after each lesson ; she kept a 
careful record, and punished or rewarded herself accord- 
ingly, the punishments being long readings from some 
religious book in her corner, murmured generally half 
aloud, to the exasperation of Miss Lois when she happen- 
ed to be present, Miss Lois having a vehement dislike for 



ANXE. 77 

"sing-song." Indeed, the little, soft, persistent murmur 
sometimes made even Anne think that the whole family- 
bore their part in Tita's religious penances. But what 
could be said to the child ? Was she not engaged in sav- 
ing her soul ? 

The marks being at last all set down, she took her 
share of pudding to the fire, and ate it daintily and dream- 
ily, enjoying it far more than the boys, who swallowed 
too hastily; far more than Anne, who liked the simj^lest 
food. The priest was the only one present who appreci- 
ated Pierre's skill as Tita appreciated it. "It is deli- 
cieux," she said, softly, replacing the spoon in the saucer, 
and leaning back against the cushions with half-closed 
eyes. 

"Will you have some more, then ?" said Anne. 

Tita shook her head, and waved away her sister impa- 
tiently. 

"She is as thorough an epicure as I am," said the 
priest, smiling ; " it takes away from the poetry of a dish 
to be asked to eat more." 

It was now time to start homeward, and Pere Michaux's 
sledge made its appearance, coming from a little islet 
near by. Old Pierre would not have dogs upon his 
shores ; yet he went over to the other island himself ev- 
ery morning, at the expense of much time and trouble, 
to see that the half-breed in charge had not neglected 
them. The result was that Pere Michaux's dogs were 
known as far as they could be seen by their fat sides, the 
only rotundities in dog-flesh within a circle of five hun- 
dred miles. Pere Michaux wished to take Tita with him 
in his sledge, in order that Anne might ride also ; but the 
young girl declined with a smile, saying that she liked 
the walk. 

' ' Do not wait for us, sir, " she said ; ' ' your dogs can go 
much faster than ours." 

But the priest preferred to make the journey in comj^a- 
ny with them; and they all started together from the 
house door, Avhere Pierre stood in his red skull-cap, bow- 
ing farewell. The sledges glided down the little slope to 
the beach, and shot out on the white ice, the two drivers 



73 ANNE. 

keeping by the side of their teams, the boys racing along 
in advance, and Anne walking with her quick elastic step 
by the side of Pere Michaux's conveyance, talking to him 
with the animation which always came to her in the 
open air. The color mounted in her cheeks ; with her 
head held erect she seemed to breathe with delight, and to 
rejoice in the clear sky, the cold, the crisp sound of her 
own footsteps, while her eyes followed the cliffs of the 
shore-line crowned with evergreens — savage cliffs which 
the short summer could hardly soften. The sun sank to- 
ward the west, the air grew colder; Tita drew the furs 
over her head, and vanished from sight, riding along in 
her nest half asleep, listening to the bells. The boys 
still ran and pranced, but more, perhaps, from a sense of 
honor than from natural hilarity. They were more ex- 
act in taking their turns in the sledge now, and more 
slow in coming out from the furs upon call; still, they 
kept on. As the track turned little by little, following 
the line of the shore, they came nearer to the mail-train 
advancing rapidly from the east in a straight line. 

' ' Denis is determined to have a good supper and sleep 
to-night," said Pere Michaux ; "no camp to make in the 
snow this evening." Some minutes later the mail-train 
passed, the gaunt old dogs which drew the sledge never 
even turning their heads to gaze at the party, but keep- 
ing straight on, having come in a direct line, without a 
break, from the point, ten miles distant. The young dogs 
in Antoine's team pricked up their ears, and betrayed a 
disposition to rush after the mail-train ; then Bene and 
Lebeau, after looking round once or twice, after turn- 
ing in their great paws more than usual as they walked, 
and holding back resolutely, at length sat deliberately 
down on their haunches, and stopped the sledge. 

"And thou art entirely right, Kene, and thou too, 
Lebeau," said old Antoine. ' ' To waste breath following 
a mail-train at a gallop is worthy only of young-dog 
silliness." 

So saying he administered to the recreant members of 
the team enough chastisement to make them forget the 
very existence of mail-trains, while Rene and Lebeau 



ANNE. 79 

waited composedly to see justice done ; they then rose in 
a dignified manner and started on, the younger dogs fol- 
lowing now with abject humility. As they came nearer 
the village the western pass opened out before them, a 
long narrow vista of ice, with the dark shore-line on each 
side, and the glow of the red sunset shining strangely 
through, as though it came from a tropical country be- 
yond. A sledge was crossing down in the west — a mov- 
ing speck ; the scene was as wild and arctic as if they had 
been travelling on Baffin's Bay. The busy priest gave lit- 
tle attention to the scene, and the others in all the win- 
ters of their lives had seen nothing else : to the Bedouins 
the great desert is nothing. Anne noted every feature 
and hue of the picture, but unconsciously. She saw it 
all, but without a comment. Still, she saw it. She was 
to see it again many times in after-years — see it in cities, 
in lighted drawing-rooms, in gladness and in sorrow, and 
more than once through a mist of tears. 

Later in the evening, when the moon was shining 
brightly, and she was on her way home from the church- 
house with East, she saw a sledge moving toward the 
northern point. "There is Pere Michaux, on his way 
home, " she said. Then, after a moment, ' ' Do you know, 
East, he thinks me dull." 

" He would not if he had seen you this evening," re- 
plied her companion. 

A deep flush, visible even in the moonlight, came into 
the girl's face. "Do not ask me to recite again," she 
pleaded ; " I can not. You must let me do what I feel is 
right." 

"What is there wrong in reciting Shakspeare ?" 

"I do not know. But something comes over me at 
times, and I am almost swept away. I can not bear to 
think of the feeling." 

"Then don't," said East. 

"You do not understand me." 

' ' I don't believe you understand yourself ; girls sel- 
dom do." 

"Why?" 

' ' Let me beg you not to fall into the power of that 



80 ANNE. 

uncomfortable word, Annet. Walters says womeu of the 
world never use it. They never ask a single question." 

"But how can they learn, then V 

"By observation," replied young Pronaudo, oracu- 
larly. _^_ 

Chapter V. 

" It was Peboan, the winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing 

As from melting lakes the streamlets, 

And his body shrunk and dwindled 

As the shouting sun ascended ; 

And the young man saw before him, 

On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 

Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, 

Saw the earliest flower of spring-time. 

Saw the miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in that Northland 

Came the spring with all its splendor, 

All its birds and all its blossoms, 

All its flowers and leaves and grasses." 

— Longfellow. The Song of Hiawatha. 

On this Northern border Spring came late — came late, 
but in splendor. She sent forward no couriers, no hints 
in the forest, no premonitions on the winds. All at once 
she was there herself. Not a shy maid, timid, pallid, hes- 
itating, and turning back, but a full-blooming goddess 
and woman. One might almost say that she was not 
Spring at all, but Summer. The weeks called spring 
farther southward showed here but the shrinking and 
fading of winter. First the snow crumbled to fine dry 
grayish powder; then the ice grew porous and became 
honeycombed, and it was no longer safe to cross the 
Straits ; then the first birds came ; then the far-off smoke 
of a steamer could be seen above the point, and the village 
wakened. In the same day the winter went and the sum- 
mer came. 

On the highest point of tlie island were the remains of 
an old earth-work, crowned by a little surveyor's station, 
like an arbor on stilts, which was reached by the aid of a 
ladder. Anne liked to go up there on the first spring 



ANNE. 81 

day, climb the ice-coated rounds, and, standing on the 
dry old snow that covered the floor, gaze off toward the 
south and east, where jDeople and cities were, and the 
spring ; then toward the north, w^here there was still only 
fast-bound ice and snow stretching away over thousands 
of miles of almost unknown country, the great wild 
northland called British America, traversed by the hunt- 
ers and trappers of the Hudson Bay Company — vast 
empire ruled by private hands, a government within a 
government, its line of forts and j)osts extending from 
James Bay to the Little Slave, from the Saskatchewan 
northward to the Polar Sea. In the early afternoon she 
stood there now, having made her way up to the height 
with some difficulty, for the ice-crust was broken, and 
she was obliged to wade knee-deep through some of the 
drifts, and go round others that were over her head, 
leaving a trail behind her as crooked as a child's through 
a clover field. Reaching the plateau on the summit at 
last, and avoiding the hidden pits of the old earth-work, 
she climbed the icy ladder, and stood on the white floor 
again with delight, brushing from her woollen skirt and 
leggings the dry snow which still clung to them. The 
sun was so bright and the air so exhilarating that she 
pushed back her little fur cap, and drew a long breath 
of enjoyment. Everything below was still white-cover- 
ed — the island and village, the Straits and the mainland ; 
but coming round the eastern point four j)ropellers could 
be seen floundering in the loosened ice, heaving the por- 
ous cakes aside, butting with their sharp high bows, and 
then backing briskly to get headway to start forward 
again, thus breaking slowly a passageway for themselves, 
and churning the black water behind until it boiled white 
as soap-suds as the floating ice closed over it. Now one 
boat, finding by chance a weakened spot, floundered 
through it without pause, and came out triumphantly 
some distance in advance of the rest; then another, 
wakened to new exertions by this sight, put on all steam, 
and went pounding along with a crashing sound until her 
bows were on a line with the first. The two boats left 
behind now started together with much splashing and 

6 



82 ANNE. 

siDuttering-, and veering- toward the shore, with the hope 
of finding a new weak place in the floe, ran against hard 
ice with a thud, and stopped shxort ; then there was much 
backing out and floundering round, the engines panting 
and the little bells ringing wildly, until the old channel 
was reached, where they rested awhile, and then made 
another beginning. These manoeuvres were repeated 
over and over again, the passengers and crew of each 
boat laughing and chaffing each other as they j^assed and 
repassed in the slow pounding race. It had happened 
more than once that these first steamers had been frozen 
in after reaching the Straits, and had been obliged to 
spend several days in company fast bound in the ice. 
Then the x^assengers a?^d crews visited each other, climb- 
ing down the sides ot the steamers and walking across. 
At that early season the passengers were seldom pleasure- 
travellers, and therefore they endured the delay philo- 
sophically. It is only the real x)leasure-traveller who 
has not one hour to spare. 

The steamers Anne now watched were the first from 
below. The lower lakes were clear; it was only this 
northern Strait that still held the ice together, and kept 
the fleets at bay on the east and on the west. White- 
winged vessels, x)ioneers of the summer squadron, waited 
without while the propellers turned their knife-bladed 
bows into the ice, and cut a pathway through. Then 
word went dov/n that the Straits were open, all the fresh- 
water fleet set sail, the lights were lit again in the light- 
houses, and the fishing stations and lonely little wood 
docks came to life. 

"How delightful it is!" said Anne, aloud. 

There are times when a person, although alone, does 
utter a sentence or two, that is, thinks aloud ; but such 
times are rare. And such sentences, also, are sliort — ex- 
clamations. The long soliloquies of the stage, so con- 
venient in the elucidation of x)lot, do not occur in real 
life, where we are left to guess at our neighbor's motives, 
untaught by so much as a syllable. How fortunate for 
Dora's chances of happiness could she but overhear that 
Alonzo thinks her a sweet, bigoted little fool, but wants 



ANNE. 



83 



that very influence to keep him straight, nothing less 
than the intense convictions of a limited intelligence and 
small experience in life being of any use in sweeping him 
over with a rusli by means of his feelings alone, which is 
what he is hoping for. Having worn out all the pleasure 
there is to be had in this world, he has now a mind to try 
for the next. 

What an esca]pe for young Conrad to learn from 
Honoria's own passionate soliloquy that she is marry- 
ing him from bitterest rage against Manuel, and that 
those tones and looks that have made him happy are 
second-hand wares, which she flings from her voice and 
eyes with desperate scorn ! Still, we must believe that 
Nature knows what she is about; and she has not as yet 
taught us to think aloud. 

But sometimes, when the air is peculiarly exhilarating, 
when a distant mountain grows purple and gold tipped as 
the sun goes down behind it, sometimes when we see the 
wide ocean suddenly, or come upon a bed of violets, we 
utter an exclamation as the bird sings : w^e hardly know 
we have spoken. 

"Yes, it is delightful," said some one below, replying 
to the girl's sentence. 

It was East, who had come across the plateau unseen, 
and was now standing on the old bastion of the fort 
beneath her. Anne smiled, then turned as if to de- 
scend. 

"Wait; I am coming up," said Rast. 

"But it is time to go home." 

"Apparently it was not time until I came," said the 
youth, swinging himself up without the aid of the ladder, 
and standing by her side. "What are you looking at ? 
Those steamers ?" 

"Yes, and the spring, and the air." 

"You can not see the air." 

' ' But I can feel it ; it is delicious. I wonder, if we 
should go far away, Hast, and see tropical skies, slow 
rivers, great white lilies, and palms, whether they would 
seem more beautiful than this?" 

" Of course they would; and we are going some day. 



84 



ANNE. 



We are not intending to stay here on this island all our 
lives, I hope." 

' ' But it is our home, and I love it. I love this water 
and these woods, I love the flash of the light-houses, and 
the rushing sound the vessels make sweeping by at night 
under full sail, close in shore." 

' ' The island is well enough in its way, but there are 
other i)laces; and I, for one, mean to see the world," said 
young Pronando, taking off his cap, throwing it up, and 
catching it like a ball. 

"Yes, you will see the world," answered Anne ; "but 
I shall stay here. You must write and tell me all about 
it." 

"Of course," said East, sending the cap up twice as 
high, and catching it with unerring hand. Then he 
stopped his play, and said, suddenly, "Will you care 
very much when I am gone away ?" 

"Yes," said Anne; "I shall be very lonely." 

"But shall you care?" said the youth, insistently. 
"You have so little feeling, Annet ; you are always cold." 

"I shall be colder still if we stay here any longer," 
said the girl, turning to descend. Rast followed her, and 
they crossed the plateau together. 

"How much shall you care?" he repeated. "You 
never say things out, Annet. You are like a stone." 

"Then throw me away," answered the girl, lightly. 
But there was a moisture in her eyes and a slight tremor 
in her voice which East understood, or, rather, thought 
he understood. He took her hand and pressed it warm- 
ly ; the two fur gloves made the action awkward, but he 
would not loosen his hold. His spirits rose, and he be- 
gan to laugh, and to drag his companion along at a rapid 
pace. They reached the edge of the hill, and the steep 
descent opened before them; the girl's remonstrances 
were in vain, and it ended in their racing down together 
at a break-neck pace, reaching the bottom, laughing and 
breathless, like two school-children. They were now on 
the second plateau, the level i^roper of the island above 
the cliffs, which, high and precipitous on three sides, 
sank down gradually to the southwestern shore, so that 




AND IT ENDED IN THEIR RACING DOWN TOGETHER. 



ANNE. 



85 



one might land there, and drag a cannon up to the old 
earth work on the summit — a feat once performed by 
British soldiers in the days when the powers of the Old 
World were still fighting with each other for the New. 
How quaint they now seem, those ancient proclamations 
and documents with which a Spanish king grandly meted 
out this country from Maine to Florida, an English queen 
divided the same with sweeping patents from East to 
West, and a French monarch, following after, regranted 
the whole virgin soil on which the banners of France were 
to be planted with solemn Christian ceremony! They 
all took possession ; they all planted banners. Some of 
the brass plates they buried are turned up occasionally 
at the present day by the farmer's plough, and, wiping 
his forehead, he stops to spell out their high-sounding 
words, while his sunburned boys look curiously over his 
shoulder. A place in the county museum is all they are 
worth now. 

Anne Douglas and East went through the fort grounds 
and down the hill path, instead of going round by the 
road. The fort ladies, sitting by their low windows, saw 
them, and commented. 

"That girl does not appreciate young Pronando," said 
Mrs. Cromer. "I doubt if she even sees his beauty." 

"Perhaps it is just as well that she does not," replied 
Mrs. Rankin, ' ' for he must go away and live his life, of 
course; have his adventures." 

" Why not she also ?" said Mrs. Bryden, smiling. 

" In the first place, she has no choice; she is tied down 
here. In the second, she is a good sort of girl, with- 
out imagination or enthusiasm. Her idea of life is to 
marry, have meat three times a week, fish three times, 
lights out at ten o'clock, and, by way of literature. Miss 
Edgeworth's novels and Macaulay's History of Eng- 
land ^ 

"And a very good idea," said Mrs. Bryden. 

" Certainly, only one can not call that adventures." 

"But even such girls come upon adventures some- 
times," said Mrs. Cromer. 

"Yes, when they have beautv. Their beauty seems 



86 



ANNE. 



often to have an extraordinary power over the most poet- 
ical and imaginative men, too, strange as it may appear. 
But Anne Douglas has none of it." 

" How you all misunderstand her!" said a voice from 
the little dining-room opening into the x>arlor, its door- 
way screened by a curtain. 

' ' Ah, doctor, are you there ?" said Mrs, Bryden. ' ' We 
should not have said a word if we had known it." 

"Yes, madam, I am here — with the colonel; but it is 
only this moment that I have lifted my head to listen to 
your conversation, and I remain filled with astonish- 
ment, as usual, at the obtuseness manifested by your sex 
regarding each other." 

"Hear! hear!" said the colonel. 

"Anne Douglas," continued the chaplain, clearing his 
throat, and beginning in a high chanting voice, which 
they all knew well, having heard it declaiming on vari- 
ous subjects during long snow-bound winter evenings, 
"is a most unusual girl." 

" Oh, come in here, doctor, and take a seat; it will be 
hard Avork to say it all through that doorvv^ay," called 
Mrs. Bryden. 

"No, madam, I will not sit down," said the chaplain, 
appearing under the curtain, his brown wig awry, his 
finger impressively pointed. "I will simply say this, 
namely, that as to Anne Douglas, you are all mistaken." 

" And who is to be the judge between us ?" 

"The future, madam." 

' ' Very well ; we will leave it to the future, then, " said 
Mrs. Bryden, skillfully evading the expected oration. 

' ' We may safely do that, madam — safely indeed ; the 
only difficulty is that we may not live to see it." 

" Oh, a woman's future is always near at hand, doctoFo 
Besides, we are not so very old ourselves." 

' ' True, madam — happily true for all the eyes that rest 
upon you. Nevertheless, tlie other side, I oi:>ine, is like- 
wise true, namely, that Anne Douglas is very young." 

"She is sixteen; and I myself am only twenty," said 
Mrs. Rankin, 

"With due respect, ladies, I must mention that not 



ANNE. 



87 



one of you was ever in lier life so young as Anne Doug< 
las at the present moment." 

•'What in the world do you mean, doctor ?" 

' ' Wliat I say. I can see you all as children in my 
mind's eye,'' continued the chaplain, unflinchingly ; 
" i^retty, bright, precocious little creatures, finely finish- 
ed, finely dressed, quick-v/itted, graceful, and bewitching. 
But at that age Anne Douglas was a — " 

"Well, what?" 

"A mollusk," said the chaplain, bringing out the word 
emphatically. 

' ' And vf hat is she now, doctor ?" 
^ "A promise." 

" To be magnificently fulfilled in the future ?" 

' ' That depends upon fate, madam ; or rather circum- 
stances." 

' ' For my part, I would rather be fulfilled, although 
not perhaps magnificently, than remain even the most 
glorious promise," said Mrs. Rankin, laughing. 

The fort ladies liked the old chaplain, and endured his 
long monologues by adding to them running accompa- 
niments of their own. To bright society women there is 
nothing so unendurable as long arguments or disserta- 
tions on one subject. Whether from want of mental 
training, or from impatience of delay, they are unwilling 
to follow any one line of thought for more than a minute 
or two; they love to skim at random, to light and fly 
away again, to hover, to poise, and then dart upward 
into space like so many humming-birds. Listen to a cir- 
cle of them sitting chatting over their embroidery round 
the fire or on a i^iazza; no man with a thoroughly mas- 
culine mind can follow them in their mental dartings 
hither and thither. He has just brought his thoughts 
to bear upon a subject, and is collecting what he is go- 
ing to say, when, behold ! they are miles away, and he 
would be considered stupid to attempt to bring them back. 
His mental processes are slow and lumbering compared 
with theirs. And when, once in a while, a woman ap- 
pears who likes to search out a subject, she finds herself 
out of place and bewildered too, often a target for the 



gg ANNE. 

quick tongues and light ridicule of her companions. If 
she likes to generalize, she is lost. Her companions nev- 
er wish to generalize ; they want to know not the gener- 
al view of a subject, but what Mrs. Blank or Mr. Star 
thinks of it. Parents, if you have a daughter of this 
kind, see that she spends in her youth a good portion of 
every day with the most volatile swift-tongued maidens 
you can find ; otherwise you leave her without the cur- 
rent coin of the realm in which she must live and die, 
and no matter if she be fairly a gold mine herself, her 
wealth is unavailable. 

Spring burst upon the island with sudden glory; the 
maples showed all at once a thousand perfect little leaf- 
lets, the rings of the juniper brightened, the wild larches 
beckoned with their long green fingers from the height. 
The ice was gone, the snow was gone, no one knew 
whither ; the Straits were dotted with white sails. Blue- 
bells appeared, swinging on their hair-like stems where 
late the icicles hung, and every little Indian farm set to 
work with vigor, knowing that the time was short. The 
soldiers from the fort dug in the military garden under 
the cliff, turning up the mould in long ridges, and paus- 
ing to hang up their coats on the old stockade with a 
finely important air of heat : it was so long since they had 
been too warm ! The little village was broad awake now ; 
there was shipping at the piers again, and a demand for 
white-fish ; all the fishing-boats were out, and their half- 
breed crews hard at work. The violins hung unused on 
the walls of the little cabins that faced the west, for the 
winter was ended, and the husbands and lovers were off 
on the water : the summer was their time for toil. 

And now came the parting. East was to leave the isl- 
and, and enter the Western college which Dr. Gaston had 
selected for him. The chaplain would have sent the boy 
over to England at once to his own alma mater had it 
been possible ; but it w^as not possible, and the good man 
knew little or nothing of the degree of excellence possessed 
by American colleges, East or West. Harvard and Yalo 
and old Columbia would not have believed this ; yet it 
was true. 



ANNE. 89 

East was in higli spirits; the brilliant world seemed 
opening before liim. Everything in his life was as he 
wished it to be ; and he was not disturbed by any realiza- 
tion that this was a rare condition of affairs which might 
never occur again. He was young, buoyant, and beauti- 
ful; everybody liked him, and he liked everybody. He 
was going to set sail into his far bright future, and he 
would find, probably, an island of silver and diamonds, 
with peacocks walking slowly about spreading their gor- 
geous feathers, and pleasure-boats at hand with silken sails 
and golden oars. It was not identically this that he 
dreamed, but things equally shining and unattainable — 
that is, to such a nature as his. The silver and diamond 
islands are there, but by a law of equalization only hard- 
featured prosaic men attain them and take possession, 
forming thereafterward a lasting contrast to their own 
surroundings, which then goes into the other scale, and 
amuses forever the poverty-stricken x)oets who, in their 
poor old boats, with ragged canvas and some small ballast 
of guitars and lutes, sail by, eating their crusts and laugh- 
ing at them. 

" I shall not go one step, even now, unless you promise 
to write regularly, Annet," said Rast, the evening before 
his departure, as they stood together on the old piazza of 
the Agency watching for the lights of the steamer which 
was to carry him away. 

'' Of course I shall write, Rast; once a week always." 

"No; I wish no set times fixed. You are simply to 
promise that you will immediately answer every letter I 
write." 

" I will answer; but as to the time — I may not always 
be able—" 

"You may if you choose; and I will not go unless 
you promise," said Rast, with irritation. ' ' Do you want 
to spoil everything, my education and all my future ? I 
would not be so selfish, Annet, if I were you. What is it 
I ask? A trifle. I have no father, no mother, no sister ,;■ 
only you. I am going away for the first time in my life, 
and you grudge me a letter!" 

' ' Not a letter, Rast, but a promise ; lest I might not be 



90 ANNE. 

able to fulfill it. I only meant that something might 
happen in the house which would keep me from answer- 
ing within the hour, and then my promise would be brok- 
en. I will always answer as soon as I can." 

"You will not fail me, then ?" 

The girl held out her hand and clasped his with a 
warm, honest pressure; he turned and looked at her in 
the starlight. ''God bless you for your dear sincere 
eyes!" he said. "The devil himself would believe 
you." 

"I hope he would," said Anne, smiling. 

What with Miss Lois's Calvinism, and the terrific pic- 
ture of his Satanic Majesty at the death-bed of the wick- 
ed in the old Catholic church, the two, as children, had 
often talked about the devil and his characteristics, Rast 
being sure that some day he should see him. Miss Lois, 
overhearing this, agreed with the lad dryly, much to 
Anne's dismay. 

"What is the use of the devil?" she had once de- 
manded. 

"To punish the wicked," answered Miss Lois. 

"Does he enjoy it ?" 

"I suppose he does." 

" Then he must be very wicked himself ?" 

^'Heis." 

" Who created him ?" 

"You know as well as I do, Anne. God created him, 
of course." 

"Well," said the child, after a silence, going as usual 
to the root of the matter, " I don't think /should have 
made him at all if I couldn't have made him better." 

The next morning the sun rose as usual, but Rast was 
gone. Anne felt a loneliness she had never felt before 
in all her life. For Rast had been her companion ; hard- 
ly a day had passed without his step on tlie piazza, his 
voice in the hall, a w^alk with him or a sail ; and always, 
v/hether at home or abroad, the constant accompaniment 
of his suggestions, his fault-findings, his teachings, his 
teasings, his grumblings, his laughter and merry non- 
sense, the whole made bearable — nay, even pleasant — by 



ANNE. 9j 

the affection that lay underneath. Anne Douglas's na- 
ture was faithful to an extraordinary deg-i-ee, faithful to 
its promises, its duties, its love; but it was an intuitive 
faithfulness, which never thought about itself at all. 
Those persons who are in the habit of explaining volumi- 
nously to themselves and everybody else the lines of ar- 
gument, the struggles, and triumphant conclusions reach- 
ed by their various virtues, would have considered this 
girl's mind but a x)Oor dull thing, for Anne never ana- 
lyzed herself at all. She had never lived for herself or in 
herself, and it was that which gave the tinge of coldness 
that was noticed in her. For warm-heartedness general- 
ly begins at home, and those who are warm to others are 
warmer to themselves ; it is but the overflow. 

Meantime young Pronando, sailing southward, felt 
his spirits rise with every shining mile. Loneliness is 
crowded out of the mind of the one who goes by the myri- 
ad images of travel ; it is the one who stays who suffers. 
But there was much to be done at the Agency. The boys 
grew^ out of their clothes, the old furniture fell to pieces, 
and the father seemed more lost to the present with ev- 
ery day and hour. He gave less and less attention to the 
wants of the household, and at last Anne and Miss Lois to- 
gether managed everything without troubling him even 
by a question. For strange patience have loving women 
ever had with di'eamers like William Douglas— men who, 
viewed by the eyes of the world, are useless and incom- 
petent ; tears are shed over their graves oftentimes long 
after the successful are forgotten. For personally there 
is a sweetness and gentleness in their natures which make 
them very dear to the women who love them. The suc- 
cessful man, perhaps, would not care for such love, whicK 
is half devotion, half protection; the successful man 
wishes to domineer. But as he grows old he notices that 
Jane is always quiet when the peach-trees are in bloom, 
and that gray-haired sister Catherine always bends down 
her head and weeps silently whenever the choir sings 
I " Rockingham" ; and then he remembers who it was that 
died when the peach-trees showed their blossoms, and vv^ho 
it was who went about humming "Rockingham," and 



92 



ANNE. 



understands. Yet always with a slow surprise, and a 
wonder at women's ways, since both the men were, to his 
idea, failures in the world and their generation. 

Any other woman of Miss Lois's age and strict prudence, 
having general charge of the Douglas household, would 
have required from Anne long ago that she should ask her 
father plainly what were his resources and his income. 
To a cent were all the affairs of the church-house regu- 
lated and balanced ; Miss Lois would have been unhappy 
at the end of the Aveek if a penny remained unaccounted 
for. Yet she said nothing to the daughter, nothing to 
the father, although noticing all the time that the small 
XDrovision was no larger, while the boys grew like reeds, 
and the time w^as at hand when more must be done for 
them. William Douglas's w^ay was to give Anne at the 
beginning of each week a certain sum. This he had done 
as far back as his daughter could remember, and she had 
spent it under the direction of Miss Lois. Now, being 
older, she laid it out without much advice from her men- 
tor, but began to feel troubled because it did not go as far. 
''It goes as far," said Miss Lois, "but the boys have gone 
farther." 

" Poor little fellows! they must eat." 

"And they must work." 

"But what can they do at their age. Miss Lois ?" 

"Form habits," replied the New England woman, 
sternly. " In my opinion the crying evil of the country 
to-day is that the boys are not trained ; educated, I grant 
you, but not trained — trained as they were when times 
were simpler, and the rod in use. Parents are too ambi- 
tious ; the mechanic wishes to make his sons merchants, 
the merchant wishes to make his gentlemen ; but, while 
educating them and pushing them forward, the i^arents 
forget the homely habits of patient labor, strict veracity 
in thought and action, and stern self-denials which have 
given them their measure of success, and so between the 
two stools the ]30or boys fall to the ground. It is my opin- 
ion," added Miss Lois, decisively, "that, whether you 
want to build the Capitol at Washington or a red barn, 
you must first have a firm foundation," 



ANNE. 93 

' ' Yes, I know, " replied Anne. ' ' And I do try to con- 
trol them," 

"Oil, General Putnam! you try!" said Miss Lois. 
*' Why, you spoil them like babies." 

Anne always gave up the point when Miss Lois reverted 
to Putnam. This Eevolutionary hero, now principally 
known, like Romulus, by a wolf story, was the old maid's 
glory and remote ancestor, and helped her over occasion- 
al necessities for strong expressions with ancestral kind- 
ness. She felt like reverting to him more than once that 
summer, because. Past having gone, there was less of a 
whirlwind of out-door life, of pleasure in the woods and 
on the water, and the plain bare state of things stood clear^ 
ly revealed. Anne fell behind every month with the 
household exiDenses in spite of all her efforts, and every 
month Miss Lois herself made up the deficiency. The 
boys were larger, and careless. The old house yawned 
itself apart. Of necessity the gap between the income 
and the ex]3enditure must grow wider and wider. Anne 
did not realize this, but Miss Lois did. The young girl 
thought each month that she must have been unusual- 
ly extravagant ; she counted in some item as an extra ex- 
pense which would not occur again, gave up something 
for herself, and began anew with fresh hope. On almost 
all subjects Miss Lois had the smallest amount of patience 
for what she called blindness, but on this she was silent. 
Now and then her eyes would follow Anne's father with a 
troubled gaze ; but if he looked toward her or spoke, she 
at once assumed her usual brisk manner, and was even 
more cheerful than usual. Thus, the mentor being si- 
lent, the family drifted on. 

The short Northern summer, with its intense sunshine 
and its cool nights, was now upon them. Fire crackled 
upon the hearth of the Agency sitting-room in the early 
morning, but it died out about ten o'clock, and from that 
time until five in the afternoon the heat and the bright- 
ness were peculiarly brilliant and intense. It seemed as 
though the white cliffs must take fire and smoulder in 
places where they were without trees to cover them ; to 
climb up and sit there was to feel the earth burning un- 



94 ANNE. 

der you, and to be penetrated with a sun-bath of rays 
beating straight down through the clear air like white 
shafts. And yet there was nothing resembling tlie low- 
land heats in this atmosx)here, for all the time a breeze 
blew, ruffling the Straits, and bearing the vessels swift- 
ly on to the east and the west on long tacks, making the 
leaves in the woods flutter on their branchlets, and keep- 
ing the wild-brier bushes, growing on angles and points 
of the cliff, stretched out like long w^hip-cords wreathed 
in pink and green. There was nothing, too, of the still- 
ness of the lowlands, for always one could hear the rust- 
ling and laughing of the forest, and the wash of the wa- 
ter on the pebbly beach. There w^ere seldom any clouds 
in the summer sky, and those that were there were nev- 
er of that soft, high-piled white downiness that belongs 
to summer clouds farther south. They came up in the 
west at evening in time for the sunset, or they lay along 
the east in the early morning, but they did not drift over 
the zenith in w^hite laziness at noontide, or come together 
violently in sudden thunder-storms. They were sober 
clouds of quiet hue, and they seemed to know that they 
were not to have a jJi'ominent place in th^ summer pro- 
cession of night, noon, and morning in that Northern 
sky, as though there was a law that the sun should have 
uninterrupted sway during the short season allotted to 
him. Anne walked in the woods as usual, but not far. 
East was gone. East always hurried everybody; left 
alone, she wandered slowly through the aisles of the arbor 
vita3 on the southern heights. The close ranks of these 
trees hardly made what is called a grove, for the flat green 
plats of foliage rose straight into the air, and did not arch 
or mingle with each other ; a person walking there could 
always see the oi)en sky above. But so dense was the 
thickness on each side that though the little j^atlis with 
which the wood was intersected often ran close to each 
other, sometimes side by side, persons following them had 
no suspicion of each other's presence unless their voices 
betrayed them. In the hot sun the trees exhaled a strong 
aromatic fragrance, and as the currents of air did not 
penetrate their low green-walled aisles, it rested there, ah 



ANNE. 



95 



though up above everything was dancing along — butter- 
flies, petals of the brier, waifs and strays from the forest, 
borne lakeward on the strong breeze. The atmosphere in 
these i)aths was so hot, still, and aromatic that now and 
then Anne loved to go there and steep herself in it. She 
used to tell Miss Lois that it made her feel as though 
she was an Egyptian X3rincess who had been swathed in 
precious gums and spices for a thousand years. 

Over on the other side of the island grew the great 
pines. These had two deeply w^orn Indian trails leading 
through them from north to south, not aimless, wandering 
little i>aths like those through the arbor vitas, but one 
straight track from the village to the western shore, and 
another leading down to the spring on the beach. The 
clifi:'s on whose summit these pines grew were high and 
precipitous, overlooking deep water ; a vessel could have 
sailed by so near the shore that a jDebble thrown from above 
would have dropped upon her deck. With one arm 
round an old trunk, Anne often sat on the edge of these 
cliffs, looking down through the western pass. She had 
never felt any desire to leave the island, save that some- 
times she had vague dreams of the tropics — visions of 
l)alm-trees and white lilies, the Pyramids and minarets, as 
fantastic as her dreams of Shakspeare. But she loved 
the island and the island trees ; she loved the wild larches, 
the tall spires of the spruces bossed with lighter green, 
the gray pines, and the rings of the juniper. She had a 
peculiar feeling about trees. When she was a little girl 
she used to whisper to them how much she loved them, 
and even now she felt that they noticed her. Several 
times since these recent beginnings of care she had turn- 
ed back and gone over part of the path a second time, 
because she felt that she had not ]>een as observant as 
usual of her old friends, and that they would be grieved 
by the inattention. But this she never told. 

There was, however, less and less time for walking in 
the woods ; there was much to do at home, and she was 
faithful in doing it: every spring of the little household 
machinery felt her hand upon it, keeping it in order. 
The clothes she made for Tita and the boys, the dinners 



96 ANNE. 

she provided from scanty materials, the locks and latches 
she improvised, the jDaint she mixed and applied, the 
cheerfulness and spirit with which she labored on day- 
after day, were evidences of a great courage and un- 
selfishness ; and if the garments were not always success- 
ful as regards shape, nor the dinners always good, she 
was not disheartened, but bore the fault-findings cheer- 
fully, promising to do better another time. For they all 
found fault with her, the boys loudly, Tita quietly, but 
with a calm pertinacity that always gained its little point. 
Even Miss Lois thought sometimes that Anne was care- 
less, and told her so. For Miss Lois never concealed her 
light under a bushel. The New England woman believed 
that household labor held the first place among a woman's 
duties and privileges ; and if the housekeeper spent four- 
teen hours out of the twenty-four in her task, she was 
but fulfilling her destiny as her Creator had intended. 
Anne was careless in the matter of piece-bags, having 
only two, whereas four, for linen and cotton, colors and 
black materials, were, as every one knew, absolutely ne- 
cessary. There was also the systematic halving of sheets 
and resewing them at the first signs of wear somewhat 
neglected, and also a particularity as to the saving of 
string. Even the vaguely lost, thought- wandering fa- 
ther, too, finding that his comforts diminished, sj^oke of 
it, not with complaint so much as surprise ; and then the 
daughter restored what he had missed at any sacrifice. 
All this was done without the recognition by anybody that 
it was much to do. Anne did not think of it in that way, 
and no one thought for her. For they were all so ac- 
customed to her strong, cheerful spirit that they took 
what she did as a matter of course. Dr. Gaston under- 
stood something of the life led at the Agency; but he too 
had fallen into a way of resting upon the girl. She took 
a rapid survey of his small housekeeping whenever she 
came up to his cottage for a lesson, which was not as often 
now as formerly, owing to her manifold home duties. 
But Pere Michaux shook his head. He believed that 
all should live their lives, and that one should not be a 
slave to others ; that the young should be young, and tlini 



ANNE. 97 

some natural simijle pleasure should be put into each 
twenty-four hours. To all his flock he preached this 
doctrine. They might be poor, but children should be 
made hapjoy ; they might be poor, but youth should not 
be overwhelmed with the elders' cares; they might be 
poor, but they could have family love round the i^oorest 
hearthstone ; and there was always time for a little plea- 
sure, if they would seek it simply and moderately. The 
fine robust old man lived in an atmosphere above the sub- 
tleties of his leaner brethren in cities farther southward, 
and he was left untrammelled in his water diocese. Priv- 
ileges are allowed to scouts preceding the army in an In- 
dian country, because it is not every man who can be a 
scout. Not but that the old priest understood the mys- 
teries, the introverted gaze, and indv/elling thoughts that 
belong to one side of his religion ; they were a part of his 
experience, and he knew their beauty and their dan- 
gers. They were good for some minds, he said; but it 
was a strange fact, which he had proved more than once 
during the long course of his ministry, that the minds 
which needed them the least loved them the most dearly, 
I'e veiled in them, and clung to them with pertinacity, 
in spite of his efforts to turn them into more practical 
channels. 

In all his broad parish lie had no penitent so long-wind- 
ed, exhaustive, and self-centred as little Tita. He took 
excellent care of the child, was very patient with her small 
ceremonies and solemnities, tried gently to lead her 
aright, and, with rare wisdom, in her own way, not his. 
But throiigii it all, in his frequent visits to the Agency, 
and in the visits of the Douglas family to the hermitage, 
his real interest was centred in the Protestant sister, 
the tall unconscious young girl who had not yet, as 
he said to himself, begun to live. He shook his head 
often as he thought of her. ' ' In France, even in Eng- 
land, she would be guarded," he said to himself; "but 
here I It is an excellent country, this America of theirs, 
for the pioneer, the New-Englander, the adventurer, and 
the farmer; but for a girl like Anne ? No." And then, 
if Anne was present, and happened to meet his eye, she 



98 ANNE. 

smiled back so frankly that lie forgot his fears. " After 
all, I suppose there are hundreds of such girls in this 
country of theirs," he admitted, in a grumbling way, 
to his French mind, "coming up like flowers every- 
where, without any guardianship at all. But it is all 
wi'ong, all wrong." 

The priest generally placed America as a nation in the 
hands of possessive pronouns of the third person plural; 
it was a safe way of avoiding responsibility, and of be- 
ing as scornful, without offending any one, as he pleased. 
One must have some outlet. 

The summer wore on. Rast wrote frequently, and 
Anne, writing the first letters of her life in reply, found 
that she liked to write. She saved in her memory all 
kinds of things to tell him: about their favorite trees, 
about the birds that had nests in the garden that season, 
about the fishermen and their luck, about the unusual 
quantity of raspberries on the mainland, about the boys, 
about Tita. Something, too, about Bacon and Sir Thomas 
Browne, selections from whose volumes she was now 
reading under the direction of the chaplain. But she 
never put down any of her own thoughts, opinions, or 
feelings : her letters were curious examples of purely im- 
personal objective writing. Egotism, the under-current 
of most long letters as of most long conversations also, 
the telling of how this or that was due to us, affected 
us, was regarded by us, was prophesied, was commended, 
was objected to, was feared, was thoroughly understood, 
was held in restraint, was despised or scorned by us, and 
all our opinions on the subject, which, however import- 
ant in itself, we present always surrounded by a large 
indefinite aureola of our own personality — this was entire- 
ly wanting in Anne Douglas's letters and conversation. 
Perhaps if she had had a girl friend of her own age she 
might have exchanged with her those little confidences, 
speculations, and fancies which are the first steps toward 
independent thought, tliose mazy whispered discussions 
in which girls delight, the beginnings of poetry and. ro- 
mance, the beginnings, in fact, of their own personal in- 
dividual consciousness and life. But she had only East, 



ANNE. 99 

and that was not the same thing-. Rast always took the 
lead ; and he had so many opinions of his own that there 
was no time to discuss, or even inquire about, hers. 

In the mean time young Pronando was growing into 
manhood at the rate of a year in a month. His handsome 
face, fine bearing, generous ways, and incessant activity 
both of limb and brain gave him a leader's place among 
the Western students, who studied well, were careless in 
dress and manner, spent their money, according to the 
Western fashion, like princes, and had a peculiar dry 
humor of their owq, delivered with lantern- jawed solem- 
nity. 

Young Pronando's preparation for college had been 
far better than that of most of his companions, owing to 
Dr. Gaston's care. The boy apprehended with great ra- 
pidity — apprehended perhaps more than he comprehend- 
ed : he did not take the time to comprehend. He floated 
lightly down the stream of college life. His comrades 
liked him ; the young Western professors, quick, uncere- 
monious, practical men, were constantly running against 
little rocks which showed a better training than their own, 
and were therefore shy about finding fault with him ; and 
the old president, an Eastern man, listened furtively to 
his Oxford pronunciation of Greek, and sighed in spite oi 
himself and his large salary, hating the new bare white- 
iminted flourishing institution over which he presided 
with a fresher hatred — the hatred of an exile. For there 
was not a tree on the college grounds : Young America 
always cuts down all his trees as a first step toward civil- 
ization ; then, after an interregnum, when all the kings 
of the forest have been laid low, he sets out small saplings 
in whitewashed tree-boxes, and watches and tends them 
with fervor. 

East learned rapidly — more things than one. The 
school for girls, which, singularly enough, in American 
towns, is always found flourishing close under the walls 
of a college, on the excellent and heroic principle, per- 
haps, of resisting temptation rather than fleeing from it, 
was situated here at convenient distance for a variety of 
strict rules on both sides, which gave interest and excite- 



100 ANNE. 

ment to the day. Every morning Miss Corinna Haws and 
her sister girded themselves for the contest with fresh- 
rubbed spectacles and vigilance, and every morning the 
girls eluded them; that is, some of the girls, namely, 
Louise Bay and Kate and Fanny Meadows, cousins, ri- 
irals, and beauties of the Western river-country type, 
where the full life and languor of the South have fused 
somewhat the old inherited New England delicacy and 
fragile contours. These three young girls were all in- 
terested in handsome East in their fanciful, innocent, 
sentimental way. They glanced at him furtively in 
church on Sunday ; they took walks of miles to catch a 
distant glimpse of him ; but they would have run away 
like frightened fawns if he had approached nearer. 
They wrote notes which they never sent, but carried in 
their pockets for days ; they had deep secrets to tell each 
other about how they had heard that somebody had told 
somebody else that the Juniors were going to play ball 
that afternoon in Payne's meadow, and that if they could 
only persuade Miss Miriam to go round by the hill, they 
could see them, and not so very far off either, only two 
wheat fields and the river between. Miss Miriam was 
the second Miss Haws, good-tempered and — near-sighted. 
That the three girls were interested in one and the 
same person was part of the pleasure of the affair ; each 
would have considered it a very dreary amusement to be 
interested all alone. The event of the summer, the com- 
et of that season's sky, was an invitation to a small party 
in the town, where it was understood that young Pro- 
nando, with five or six of his companions, would be pres- 
ent. Miss Haws accepted occasional invitations for her 
pupils, marshalling them in a bevy, herself robed in pea- 
green silk, like an ancient mermaid: she said that it gave 
them 'dignity. It did. The stern dignity and silence 
almost solemn displayed by East's three worshippers when 
they found themselves actually in the same room with 
Mm were something preternatural. They moved stiffly, 
as if their elbows and ankles were out of joint; they 
spoke to each other cautiously in the lowest whispers, 
with their under jaws rigid, and a difficulty with their 



ANNE. 101 

labials ; they moved their eyes carefully everywhere save 
toward the point where he was standing-, yet knew exact- 
ly where he was every moment of the time. When he 
approached the quadrille which was formed in one corner 
by Miss Haws's young ladies, dancing virginally by them- 
selves, they squeezed each others' hands convulsively 
when tliey passed in "ladies' chain," in token of the 
great fact that he was looking on. When, after the 
dance, they walked up and down in the hall, arm in arm, 
they trod upon each other's slippers as sympathetic per- 
ception of the intensity of his presence on the stairs. 
What an evening ! How crowded full of emotions ! Yet 
the outward appearance was simply that of three shy, 
awkward girls in white muslin, keeping close together, 
and as far as possible from a handsome, gay-hearted, fast- 
talking youth who never once noticed them. O the im- 
aginative, happy, shy fancies of foolish school-girls ! It 
is a question whether the real love which comes later 
ever yields that wild, fairy-like romance which these early 
attachments exhale ; the very element of reality weights 
it down, and makes it less heavenly fair. 

At the end of the summer East had acquired a deep ex- 
perience in life (so he thought), a downy little golden 
mustache, and a better opinion of himself than ever. The 
world is very kind to a handsome boy of frank and spirit- 
ed bearing, one who looks as though he intended to 
mount and ride to victory. The proud vigor of such a 
youth is pleasant to tired eyes ; he is so sure he will suc- 
ceed! And most persons older, although knowing the 
world better and not so sure, give him as he passes a smile 
and friendly word, and wish him godspeed. It is not 
quite fair, perhaps, to other youths of equal merit but 
another bearing, yet Nature orders it so. The hand- 
some, strong, confident boy who looks her in the face 
with daring courage wins from her always a fine starting- 
place in the race of life, which seems to advance him far 
beyond his companions. Seems ; but the end is far away. 

Rast did not return to the island during the summer 
vacation ; Dr. Gaston wished him to continue his studies 
with a tutor, and as the little college town was now^ ra- 



102 ANNE. 

diant with a mild summer gayety, the young man was 
willing to remain. He wrote to Anne frequently, giving 
abstracts of his life, lists of little events like statistics in 
a report. He did this regularly, and omitted nothing, 
for the letters were his conscience. When they were 
once written and sent, however, off he went to new 
pleasures. It must be added as w^ell that he always 
sought the post-office eagerly for Anne's replies, and 
placed them in his pocket with satisfaction. They were 
sometimes unread, or half read, for days, awaiting a con- 
venient season, but they were there. 

Anne's letters were long, they were pleasant, they were 
never exciting — the very kind to keep ; like friends who 
last a lifetime, but who never give us one quickened 
pulse. Alone in his room, or stretched on the grass un- 
der a tree, reading them. East felt himself strongly car- 
ried back to his old life on the island, and he did not re- 
sist the feeling. His plans for the future were as yet 
vague, but Anne was always a part of his dream. 

But this youth lived so vigorously and fully and hap- 
pily in the present that there was not much time for the 
future and for dreams. He seldom thought. What oth- 
er people thought, he felt. . 



ANNE. 103 



Chapter VI. 



" Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, thither, 

Into the Silent Land? 

"0 Land, Land, 
For all the broken-hearted, 
The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
To the land of the great Departed — 
Into the Silent Land!" 

— LoNGFELLOAV. Fvom the German. 

Early in September William Douglas failed suddenly. 
From taciturnity lie sank into silence, from quiet into 
lethargy. He rose in the morning, but after that effort 
he became like a breathing statue, and sat all day in his 
arm-chair without stirring or noticing anything. If they 
brought him food he ate it, but he did not speak or answer 
their questions by motion or gesture. The fort surgeon 
was puzzled ; it was evidently not paralysis. He was a 
new-comer on the island, and he asked many questions 
as to the past. Anne sincerely. Miss Lois Resolutely, de- 
nied that there had ever been any trouble with the brain ; 
Dr. Gaston drummed on the table, and answered sharply 
that all men of intellect were more or less mad. But 
the towns-people smiled, and tapped their foreheads signif- 
icantly ; and the new surgeon had noticed in the course 
of his experience that, with time for observation, the 
towns-people are generally right. So he gave a few 
medicines, ordered a generous diet, and looking about 
him for some friend of the family who could be trusted, 
selected at last Pere Michaux. For Miss Lois w^ould not 
treat him even civilly, bristling when he approached like 



104 ANNE. 

a hedge-hog; and with her frank eyes meeting his, he 
found it impossible to speak to Anne. But he told Pere 
Michaux the true state of his patient, and asked him to 
break the tidings to the family. 

" He can not live long," he said. 

" Is it so ?" said Pere Michaux. "God's will be done. 
Poor Anne!" 

"An odd lot of children he has in that ramshackle old 
house of his," continued the surgeon. "Two sets, I 
should say." 

" Yes; the second wife was a French girl." 

"With Indian blood?" 

"Yes." 

' ' I thought so. Who is to have charge of them ? The 
boys will take to the w^oods, I suppose, but that little Tita 
is an odd specimen. She would make quite a sensation 
in New York a few years later." 

" May she never reach there!" said the old priest, fer- 
vently. 

' ' Well, perhaps you are right. But who is to have the 
child?" 

"Her sister will take charge of her." 

' ' Miss Anne ? Yes, she will do her best, of course ; she 
is a fine, frank young Saxon. But I doubt if she under- 
stands that elfish little creature." 

"She understands her better than we do," said the 
priest, with some heat. 

' ' Ah ? You know best, of course ; I speak merely as 
an outsider," answered the new surgeon, going off about 
his business. 

Pere Michaux decided that he would tell Anne herself. 
He went to the house for the purpose, and called her out 
on the old piazza. But when she stood before him, her 
violet eyes meeting his without a suspicion of the tidings 
he brought, his heart failed him suddenly. He compre- 
hended for the first time what it would be to her, and, 
making some chance inquiry, he asked to see Miss Lois, 
and turned away. Anne went in, and Miss I-ois came 
out. The contrast between the priest and the New Eng- 
land woman was more marked than usual as they stood 




ALARMED, HE BENT OVER HER. 



ANNE. i^ 

there facing each other on the old piazza, he less com- 
posed than he ordinarily was on account of what he had 
to tell. But it never occurred to him for a moment that 
Miss Lois would falter. Why should she ? He told her. 
She sank down at his feet as though she had fallen there 
and died. 

Alarmed, he bent over her, and in the twilight saw 
that she was not dead ; her features were working strange- 
ly ; her hands were clinched over her breast ; her faded 
eyes stared at him behind the spectacles as though he 
were miles away. He tried to raise her. She struck at 
him almost fiercely. "Let me alone, "she said, in a 
muffled voice. Then, still lying where she fell, she threw 
up her arms and wailed once or twice, not loudly, but with 
a struggling, inarticulate sound, as a person cries out in 
sleep. Poor old Lois ! it was the last wail of her love. 
But even then she did not recognize it. Nor did the 
priest. Pale, with uncertain steps-and shaking hands, 
yet tearless, the stricken woman raised herself by the aid 
of the bench, crossed the piazza, went down the path and 
into the street, Pere Michaux's eyes following her in be- 
wilderment. She was evidently going home, and her 
prim, angular shape looked strangely bare and uncover- 
ed in the lack of bonnet and shawl, for through all the 
years she had lived on the island she had never once 
been seen in the open air without them. The precision 
of her bonnet strings was a matter of conscience. The 
priest went away also. And thus it Imppened that Anne 
was not told at all. 

When, late in the evening. Miss Lois returned, grayly 
pale, but quiet, as she entered the hall a cry met her 
ears and rang through the house. It had come sooner 
than any one expected. The sword of sorrow, which soon- 
er or later must pierce all loving hearts, had entered 
Anne Douglas's breast. Her father was dead. 

He had died suddenly, peacefully and without pain, 
passing away in sleep. Anne was with him, and Tita, jeal- 
ously watchful to the last. No one else was in the room 
at the moment. Pere Michaux, coming in, had been the 
first to perceive the change. 



iW 



ANNE. 



Tita drew away quickly to a distant corner, and kneel- 
ing down where she could still see everything that went 
on, began repeating prayers ; but Anne, with a wild cry, 
threw herself down beside her dead, sobbing, holding his 
hand, and calling his name again and again. She w^ould 
not believe that he was gone. 

Ah, well, many of us know the sorrow. A daughter's 
love for a kind father is a peculiarly dependent, cling- 
ing affection ; it is mixed with the careless happiness of 
childhood, which can never come again. Into the fa- 
ther's grave the daughter, sometimes a gray -haired wo- 
man, lays away forever the little pet names and memor- 
ies which to all the rest of the world are but foolishness. 
Even though happy in her woman's lot, she weeps con- 
vulsively here for a while with a sorrow that nothing 
can comfort ; no other love so protecting and unselfish 
will ever be hers again. 

Anne was crushed J)y her grief ; it seemed to those who 
watched her that she revealed a new nature in her sor- 
row. Dr. Gaston and Pere Michaux spoke of it to each 
other, but could find little to say to the girl herself; she 
had, as it were, drifted beyond their reach, far out on an 
unknown sea. They prayed for her, and went silent- 
ly away, only to come back within the hour and meet 
again on the threshold, recognizing each other's errand. 
They were troubled by the change in this young creature, 
upon whom they had all, in a certain way, depended. 
Singularly enough, Miss Lois did not seem to appreciate 
Anne's condition : she Avas suffering too deeply herself. 
The whole of her repressed nature was in revolt. But 
faithful to the unconscious secret of her life, she still 
thought the wild pain of her heart was "sorrow for a 
friend." 

She went about as usual, attending to household tasks 
for both homes. She was unchanged, yet totally changed. 
There was a new tension about her mouth, and an un- 
wonted silence, but her hands were as busy as ever. 
Days had passed after the funeral before she began to 
perceive, even slightly, the broken condition of Anne. 
The girl herself was the first to come back to the present, 



ANNE. 107 

in the necessity for asking one of those sad questions 
which often raise their heads as soon as the coffin is borne 
away. "Miss Lois, there are bills to be paid, and I 
have no money. Do you know anything of our real in- 
come V 

The old habits of the elder woman stirred a little ; but 
she answered, vaguely, "No." 

"We must look through dear papa's papers," said 
Anne, her voice breaking as she spoke the name. " He 
received few letters, none at all lately ; whatever he had, 
then, must be here." 

Miss Lois assented, still silently, and the two began 
their task. Anne, with a quivering lip, unlocked her 
father's desk. William Douglas had not been a relic- 
loving man. He had lived, he had loved; but memory 
was sufficient for him ; he needed no tokens. So, amid a 
hundred mementos of nature, they found nothing per- 
sonal, not even a likeness of Anne's mother, or lock of 
her curling brown hair. And amid a mass of miscella- 
neous papers, writings on every philosophic and imagina- 
tive subject, they found but one relating to money — some 
figures jotted down, with a date affixed, the sum far from 
large, the date three years before. Below, a later line was 
added, as if (for the whole was vague) 'so much had gone, 
and this was the remainder; the date of this last line 
was eight months back. 

' ' Perhaps this is it, " said Anne ; ' ' perhaps this is what 
he had." 

"I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Lois, mechanically. 

They went on with the search, and at last came to a 
package tied in brown paper, which contained money; 
opening it, they counted the contents. 

"Three hundred and ten dollars and eighty-five cents," 
said Anne. 

Miss Lois took a pen and made a calculation, still with 
the manner of a machine. ' ' That is about what would be 
left by this time, at the rate of the sums you have had, 
supposing the memorandum is what you think it is," she 
said, rubbing her forehead with a shadowy imitation of 
her old habit. 



108 ANNE. 

" It is a large sum," said Anne. 

Nothing more was found. It appeared, therefore, that 
the five children of William Douglas were left alone in 
the world with exactly three hundred and ten dollars and 
eighty -five cents. 

Dr. Gaston and Pere Michaux learned the result that 
day ; the story spread through the village and up to the 
fort. "I never heard anything so extraordinary in my 
life," said Mrs. Cromer. "That a man like Dr. Douglas 
should have gone on for the last four or five years delib- 
erately living on his capital, seeing it go dollar by dollar, 
without making one effort to save it, or to earn an income 
— a father with children ! I shall always believe, after 
this, that the villagers were right, and that his mind was 
affected." 

The chaplain stopped these comments gruffly, and the 
fort ladies forgave him on account of the tremor in his 
voice. He left them, and went across to his little book- 
clogged cottage with the first indications of age showing 
in his gait. 

"It is a blow to him; he is very fond of Anne, and 
hoped everything for her," said Mrs. Bryden. "I pre- 
sume he would adopt her if he could ; but there are the 
other children." 

"They might go to their mothers relatives, I should 
think," said Mrs. Rankin. 

"They could, but Anne will not allow it. You will 
see." 

"I suppose our good chaplain has nothing to bequeath, 
even if he should adopt Anne ?" 

' ' No, he has no property, and has saved nothing from 
his little salary ; it has all gone into books," answered the 
colonel's wife. 

Another week passed. By that time Dr. Gaston and 
Pere Michaux together had brought the reality clearly 
before Anne's eyes ; for the girl had heretofore held such 
small sum.s of money in her hands at any one time that 
the amount found in the desk had seemed to her large. 
Pere Michaux began the small list of resources by pro- 
posing that the four children should go at once to their 



ANNE. 109 

uncle, their mother's brother, wlio was willing to receive 
them and give them a home, such as it was, among his own 
brood of black-eyed little ones. Anne decidedl}^ refused. 
Dr. Gaston then asked her to come to him, and be his 
dear daughter as long as he lived. 

' ' I must not come with them, and I can not come with- 
out them," was Anne's reply. 

There remained Miss Lois. But she seemed entirely 
unconscious of any i^ressing necessity for haste in regard 
to the affairs of the little household, coming and going 
as usual, but without words ; while people round her, with 
that virtuous readiness as to the duties of their neighbors 
which is so helpful in a wicked world, said loudly and 
frequently that she was the nearest friend, and ought 
to do — Here followed a variety of suggestions, which 
amounted in the aggregate to everything. At last, as 
often happens, it was an outside voice that brought the 
truth before her. 

' ' And what are you thinking of doing, dear Miss Lois, \ 
for the five i^oor orphans ?" asked the second Miss Mac- 
dougall while paying a visit of general condolence at the 
church-house. 

"Why, what should I do ?" said Miss Lois, with a faint 
remembrance of her old vigilant pride. ' ' They want 
nothing." 

' ' They want nothing ! And not one hundred dollars 
apiece for them in the wide world !" exclaimed Miss Jean. 
"Surely you're joking, my dear. Here's Dr. Gaston 
wishing to take Anne, as is most kind and natural; but 
she w^ill not leave those children. Although why they 
should not go back to the stratum from which they came 
is a mystery to me. She can never make anything of 
them: mark my words." 

Miss Jean paused ; but whether Miss Lois marked her 
words or not, she made no response, but sat gazing straight 
at the wall. Miss Jean, however, knew her duty, and did 
it like a heroine of old. "We thought, j)erhaps, dear 
Miss Lois, that you would like to take them for a time," 
she said, ' ' seeing that Anne has proved herself so obsti- 
nate as to the other arrangements proposed. The village 



no 



ANNE. 



lias thought so generally, and I am not the one to hide it 
fi'om you, having been taught by my lamented parent to 
honor and abide by veracity the most precise. We could 
all help you a little in clothing them for the present, and 
we will contribute to their support a fish now and then, 
a bag of meal, a barrel of potatoes, which we would do 
gladly — right gladly, I do assure you. For no one 
likes to think of Dr. Douglas's children being on the 
town." 

The homely phrase roused Miss Lois at last. "What 
in the world are you talking about, Jean Macdougall ?" she 
exclaimed, in wrath. "On the town! Are you clean 
daft ? On the town, indeed ! Clear out of my house this 
moment, you lying, evil-speaking woman!" 

The second Miss Macdougall rose in majesty, and drew 
her black silk visite round her. "Of whom ye are speak- 
ing. Miss Hinsdale, I knaw not," she said, growing Scotch 
in her anger; "but I believe ye hae lost your wits. I 
tak' my departure freely, and not as sent by one who 
has strangely forgotten the demeanor of a leddy." 

With hands folded, she swept toward the door, all the 
flowers on her dignified bonnet swaying perceptibly. 
Pausing on the threshold, she added, *" As a gude Chris- 
tian, and a keeper of my word, I still say. Miss Hinsdale, 
in spite of insults, that in the matter of a fish or two, or a 
barrel of potatoes now and then, ye can count upon the 
Macdougalls. " 

Left alone. Miss Lois put on her shawl and bonnet with 
feverish haste, and went over to the Agency. Anne 
was in the sitting-room, and the children were with 
her. 

"Anne, of course you and the children are coming to 
live with me whenever you think it best to leave this 
house," said Miss Lois, appearing on the threshold like an 
excited ghost in spectacles. ' ' You never thought or 
planned anything else, I hope ?" 

"No," said Anne, frankly, "I did not — at least for the 
present. I knew you would help us. Miss Lois, although 
you did not speak." 

"Speak! was there any need of speaking?" said the 



ANXE. Ill 

elder womau, bursting into a few dry, liarsh sobs. "You 
are all I have in tlie world, Anne. How could you 
mistrust me V 

" I did not," said Anne. 

And tlien the two women kissed each other, and it was 
all understood without further words. And thus, through 
the intervention of the second Miss Macdougall (who 
found herself ill rewarded for her pains), Lois Hinsdale 
came out from the watch-chamber of her dead to real 
life again, took up her burden, and went on. 

Anne now unfolded her j^lans, for she had been obliged 
to invent plans: necessity forced her forward. ''We 
must all come to you for a time, dear Miss Lois ; but I 
am young and strong, and I can work, I wish to ed- 
ucate the boys as father would have wished them ed- 
ucated. Do you ask what I can do ? I think — that is, 
I hope — that I can teach." Then, in a lower voice, she 
added, " I promised father that I would do all I could for 
the children, and I shall keep my promise." 

Miss Lois's eyes filled with tears. But the effect of the 
loving emotion was only to redden the lids, and make 
the orbs beneath look smaller and more iinbeautiful than 
before. 

For to be born into life with small, inexpressive eyes 
is like being born dumb. One may have a heart full of 
feeling, but the world Avill not believe it. Pass on, then. 
Martha, with your pale little orbs; leave the feeling to 
Beatrice with her deep brown glance, to Agnes with her 
pure blue gaze, to Isabel with hers of passionate splendor. 
The world does not believe you have any especial feelings, 
poor Martha. Then do not have them, if you can help 
it — and pass on. 

"I have been thinking deeply"," continued Anne, 
^' and I have consulted Dr. Gaston. He says that I have 
a good education, but probably an old-fashioned one ; at 
least the fort ladies told him that it would be so consider- 
ed. It seems that Avhat I need is a ' polish of modern 
accomplishments,' That is what he called it. Now, to 
obtain a teacher's place, I must have this, and I can not 
obtain it here,*' She paused; and then, like one who 



112 ANNE. 

rides forward on a solitary charge, added, ' ' I am going to 
write to Miss Vanhorn." 

"A dragon!'' said Miss Lois, knitting fiercely. Then 
added, after a moment, "A positive demon of pride." 
Then, after another silence, she said, sternly, " She broke 
your mother's heart, Anne Douglas, and she will break 
yours." 

' ' I hope not, " said the girl, her voice trembling a little ; 
for her sorrow was still very near the surface, "She is 
old now, and perhaps more gentle. At any rate, she is 
my only living relative, and to her I must appeal." 

' ' How do you know she is alive ? The world would be 
well rid of such a wicked fiend," pursued Miss Lois, quot- 
ing unconsciously from Anne's forest Juliet, 

"She was living last year, for father spoke of her," 

"I did not know he ever spoke of her." 

"Only in answer to my questions; for I had found 
her address, written in mother's handwriting, in an old 
note-book. She brought up my mother, you know, and 
was once very fond of her." 

"So fond of her that she killed her. If poor Alida 
had not had that strain upon her, she might have been 
alive at this day," said Miss Lois. 

Anne's self-control left her now, and she began to 
sob like a child. ' ' Do not make it harder for me than it 
is, " she said, amid her tears. ' ' I must ask her ; and if she 
should consent to help me, it will be grief enough to 
leave you all, without these cruel memories added. She 
is old : who knows but that she may be longing to repair 
the harm she did ?" 

"Can the leopard change his spots ?" said Miss Lois, 
sternly. ' ' But what do you mean by leaving us all ? 
What do you intend to do ?" 

* ' I intend to ask her either to use her influence in ob- 
taining a teachers place for me immediately, or if I am 
not, in her opinion, qualified, to give me the proper mas- 
ters for one year. I would study very hard ; she would 
not be burdened with me long." 

' ' And the proper masters are not here, of course ?" 

"No; at the East." 



ANNE. 



113 



Miss Lois stopped in the middle of a round, took off her 
spectacles, rolled up her knitting- work slowlv and tightly 
as though it was never to be unrolled again, and pinned 
it together with decision ; she w^as pinning in also a vast 
resolution. Then she looked at Anne in silence for sev- 
eral minutes, saw the tear-dimmed eyes and tired, anxious 
face, the appealing glance of William Douglas's child. 

"I have not one word to say against it," she remark- 
ed at last, breaking the silence ; and then she walked 
out of the house and went homeward. 

It was a hard battle for her. She was to be left with 
the four brown-skinned children, for whom, she had al- 
ways felt unconquerable aversion, while the one child 
whom she loved — Anne — was to go far away. It was a 
revival of the bitter old feeling against Angelique Lafon- 
taine, the artful minx who had entrapped William Doug- 
las to his ruin. In truth, however, there had been very 
little art about Angelique ; nor was Douglas by any means 
a rich prey. But women always attribute w^onderful 
powers of strategy to a successful rival, even although by 
the same ratio they reduce the bridegroom to a condition 
approaching idiocy ; for anything is better than the sup- 
position that he was a free agent, and sought his fate from 
the love of it. 

The thought of Anne's going was dreadful to Miss Lois ; 
3'et her long-headed New England thrift and calculation 
saw chances in that future which Anne did not see. 
"The old wretch has money, and no near heirs," she said 
to herself ; ' ' why should she not take a fancy to this 
grandniece ? Anne has no such idea, but her friends 
should, therefore, have it for her." Still, the tears would 
rise and dim her spectacles as she thought of the part- 
ing. She took off the gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed 
them vigorously. "One thing is certain," she added, 
to herself, as a sort of comfort, " Tita will have to do her 
mummeries in the garden after this." 

Poor old Lois ! in these petty annoyances and heavy 
cares her great grief was to be pressed down into a sub- 
dued under-current, no longer to be indulged or made 
much of even by herself. 

8 



114 ANNE. 

Anne knew but little of her grandaunt. William 
Douglas would not speak of what Avas the most bitter 
memory of his life. The address in the old note-book, 
in her mother's unformed girlish handwriting, was her 
only guide. She knew that Miss Vanhorn was obstinate 
and ill-tempered; she knew that she had discarded her 
mother on account of her disobedient marriage, and had 
remained harsh and unforgiving to the last. And this 
was all she knew. But she had no choice. Hoping, 
praying for the best, she wrote her letter, and sent it on 
its way. Then they all waited. For Pere Michaux had 
been taken into the conference also, and had given hearty 
approval to Anne's idea — so hearty, indeed, that both the 
chaplain and Miss Lois looked upon him with disfavor. 
What did he mean ? He did not say what he meant, but 
returned to his hermitage cheerfully. Dr. Gaston, not 
so cheerfully, brought out his hardest chess problems, 
and tried to pass away the time in mathematical com- 
binations of the deepest kind. Miss Lois, however, had 
combinations at hand of another sort. No sooner was 
the letter gone than she advanced a series of conjectures 
which did honor even to her New England origin. 

The first was that Miss Vanhorn had gone abroad: 
those old New-Yorkers were ' ' capable of wishing to ride 
on camels, even"; she added, from habit, "through the 
eye of a needle." The next day she decided that paral- 
ysis would be the trouble: those old New-Yorkers were 
' ' often stricken down in that way, owing to their high 
living and desperate wine-bibbing." Anne need give 
no more thought to her letter; Miss Vanhorn would 
not be able even to read it. The third day, Miss Van- 
horn would read the letter, but would immediately throw 
it on the floor and stamp on it : those old New-Yorkers 
'had terrible tempers," and were "known to swear like 
troopers even on the slightest provocation." The fourth 
day. Miss Vanhorn was mad ; the fifth day, she was mar- 
ried; the sixth, she was dead: those old New-Yorkers 
having tendencies toward insanity, matrimony, and 
death which, Miss Lois averred, were known to all the 
world, and indisputable. That she herself had nevei 



ANNE. 



115 



been in New York in her life made no difPerence in her 
certainties : women like Miss Lois are always sure they 
know all about New York. 

Anne, weary and anxious, and forced to hear all these 
probabilities, began at last to picture her grandaunt as 
a sort of human kaleidoscope, falling into new and more 
fantastic combinations at a moment's notice. 

They had allowed two weeks for the letter to reach 
the island, always supposing that Miss Vanhorn was not 
on a camel, paralyzed, obstinate, mad, married, or dead. 
But on the tenth day the letter came. Anne took it 
with a hand that trembled. Dr. Gaston was present, 
and Miss Lois, but neither of them comprehended her 
feelings. She felt that she was now to be confronted 
by an assent which would strain her heart-strings al- 
most to snapping, yet be ultimately for the best, or by 
a refusal which would fill her poor heart with joy, al- 
though at the same time pressing down upon her shoul- 
ders a heavy, almost hox^eless, weight of care. The two 
could not enter into her feelings, because in the depths 
of their hearts they both resented her willingness to leave 
them. They never said this to each other, they never 
said it to themselves; yet they both felt it with the un- 
conscious selfishness of those who are growing old, espe- 
cially when their world is narrowed down to one or two 
loving young hearts. They did not realize that it was 
as hard for her to go as it was for them to let her go ; 
they did not realize what a supreme effort of courage 
it required to make this young girl go out alone into 
the wide world, and face its vastness and its strange- 
ness; they did not realize how she loved them, and how 
every tree, every rock of the island, also, was dear to 
her strongly loving, concentrated heart. 

After her father's death Anne had been for a time pas- 
sive, swept away by grief as a dead leaf on the wind. 
But cold necessity came and stood by her bedside silent- 
ly and stonily, and looked at her until, recalling her 
promise, slie rose, choked back her sorrow, and returned 
to common life and duty with an aching but resolute 
heart. In the effort she made to speak at all it was no 



116 ANNE. 

wonder that she spoke quietly, almost coldly; having, 
after sleepless nights of sorrow, nerved herself to bear 
the great change in her lot, should it come to her, could 
she trust herself to say that she was sorry to go ? Sor- 
ry ! — when her whole heart was one pain ! 
The letter was as follows : 

"Grandniece Anne, — I did not know that you were 
in existence. I have read your letter, and have now to 
say the following. Your mother willfully disobeyed me, 
and died. I, meanwhile, an old woman, remain as strong 
as ever. 

"While I recognize no legal claim upon me (I having 
long since attended to the future disposal of all my prop- 
erty according to my own wishes), I am willing to help 
you to a certain extent, as I would help any industrious 
young girl asking for assistance. If what you say of 
your education is true, you need only what are called 
modern accomplishments (of which I personally have 
small opinion, a grimacing in French and a squalling in 
Italian being not to my taste) to make you a fairly well 
qualified teacher in an average country boarding-school, 
which is all you can expect. You may, therefore, come 
to New York at my expense, and enter Madame Moreau's 
establishment, where, as I understand, the extreme of 
everything called ' accomplishment' is taught, and much 
nonsense learned in the latest style. You may remain 
one year; not longer. And I advise you to imjirove the 
time, as nothing more will be done for you by me. You 
will bring your own clothes, but I will pay for your 
books. I send no money now, but will refund your 
travelling expenses (of which you will keep strict ac- 
count, without extras) upon your arrival in the city, which 
must not be later than the last of October. Go directly 
to Madame Moreau's (the address is inclosed), and re- 
member that you are simply Anne Douglas, and not a 
relative of your obedient servant, 

Katharine Vanhorn." 

Anne, who had read the letter aloud in a low voice, 



ANNE. X17 

now laid it down, and looked palely at her two old 
friends. 

"A hard letter," said the chaplain, indignantly. 
"My child, remain with us. We will think of some 
other plan for you. Let the proud, cold-hearted old wo- 
man go." 

"I told you how it Avould be," said Miss Lois, a bright 
spot of red on each cheek-bone. ' ' She was cruel to your 
mother before you, and she will be cruel to you. You 
must give it up." 

"No," said Anne, slowly, raising the letter and repla- 
cing it in its envelope ; " it is a matter in which I have no 
choice. She gives me the year at school, as you see, and — 
there are the children. I promised father, and I must 
keep the i^romise. Do not make me falter, dear friends, 
for — I must go." And unable longer to keep back the 
tears, she hurriedly left the room. 

Dr. Gaston, without a word, took his old felt hat and 
went home. Miss Lois sat staring vaguely at the win- 
dow-pane, until she became conscious that some one was 
coming up the path, and that " some one" Pere Michaux. 
She too then went hurriedly homeward, by the back way, 
in order to avoid him. The old priest, coming in, found 
the house deserted. Anne was on her knees in her own 
room, sobbing as if her heart would break ; but the walls 
were thick, and he could not hear her. 

Then Tita came in. ' ' Annet is going away," she said, 
softly ; ' ' she is going to school. The letter came to-day. " 

' ' So Miss Vanhorn consents, does she ? Excellent ! ex- 
cellent!" said Pere Michaux, rubbing his hands, his eyes 
expressing a hearty satisfaction. 

"When will you say 'Excellent! excellent!' about 
me ?" said Tita, jealously. 

"Before long, I hope," said the priest, patting her 
small head. 

"But are you sure, mon pere ?" 

' ' Well, yes, " said Pere Michaux, ' ' on the whole, I am. " 

He smiled, and the child smiled also ; but with a deep 
quiet triumph remarkable in one so young. 



118 ANNE. 



Chapter VII. 

" To all appearance it was chiefly by Accident, and the grace of 
Nature." — Carlyle. 

It was still September ; for great sorrows come, graves 
are made and turfed over, and yet the montli is not out. 
Anne had written her letter immediately, accepting her 
grandaunt's offer, and Pere Michaux gave her approval 
and praise; but the others did not, could not, and she 
suffered from their silence. It made, however, no change 
in her purpose ; she went about her tasks steadily, toiling 
all day over the children's clothes, for she had used part 
of the money in her hands to make them comfortable, 
and part was to be given to Miss Lois. Her own gar- 
ments troubled her little ; two strong, plain black gowns 
she considered amply sufficient. Into the midst of all 
this swift sewing suddenly one day came East. 

"Why did I do it?" he said, in answer to everybody. 
" Do you suppose I was going to let Annet go away for 
a whole long year Avithout saying even good-by ? Of 
course not." 

"It is very kind," said Anne, her tired eyes resting 
on his handsome face gratefully, her sewing for the mo- 
ment cast aside. Her friends had not been overkiud to 
her lately, and she was deeply touched by this proof of 
attachment from her old playmate and companion. Rast 
expressed his affection, as usual, in his own way. He did 
not say that he had come back to the island because he 
wished to see her, but because he knew that she wished to 
see him. And Anne willingly agreed. Dr. Gaston, as 
guardian of this runaway collegian, gave him a long 
lecture on his escapade and its consequences, his interrupt- 
ed studies, a long train of disasters to follow being pic- 
tured with stern distinctness. Rast listened to the ser- 
mon, or rather sat through it, without impatience : he had 
a fine sunny temper, and few things troubled him. He 



ANNE. 119 

seldom gave any attention to subtleties of meaning, or 
under-currents, but took the surface impression, and an- 
swered it promptly, often putting to rout by bis direct- 
ness trains of reasoning much deeper than his own. So 
now all he said was, "I could not heljD coming, sir, be- 
cause Annet is going away; I wanted to see her." ' And 
the old man was silenced in spite of himself. 

As he was there, and it could not be helped. East, 
by common consent of the island, was allowed to spend 
several days unmolested among his old haunts. Then 
they all began to grow restive, to ask questions, and 
to speak of the different boats. For the public of small 
villages has always a singular impatience as to anything 
like uncertainty in the date of departure of its guests. 
Many a miniature community has been stirred into heat 
because it could not find out the day and hour when Mrs. 
Blank would terminate her visit at her friend's mansion, 
and with her trunk and bag depart on her way to the 
railway station ; and this not because the community has 
any objection to Mrs. Blank, or any wish to have her 
depart, but simply because if she is going, they wish to 
know ivhen, and have it settled. The few days over, 
Rast himself was not unwilling to go. He had seen 
Anne, and Anne was pressed with work, and so con- 
stantly threatened by grief that she had to hold it down 
with an iron effort at almost every moment. If she kept 
her eyes free from tears and her voice steady, she did all 
she could; she had no idea that Rast expected more. 
Rast m.eanwhile had learned clearly that he was a re- 
markably handsome, brilliant young fellow, and that the 
whole world was before him where to choose. He was 
fond of Anne ; the best feelings of his nature and the as- 
sociations of his whole boyhood's life were twined round , 
her ; and yet he was conscious that he had always been 
very kind to her, and this coming back to the island on 
purpose to see her — that was remarkably kind. He was 
glad to do it, of course ; but she must appreciate it. He 
began now to feel that as he had seen her, and as he 
could not in any case stay until she went, he might as 
well go. He yielded, therefore, to the first suggestion of 



120 ANNE. 

the higher powers, saying, however, frankly, and with 
real feeling, that it was hard to bid farewell for so long a 
time to his old playmate, and that he did not know how 
he could endure the separation. As the last words were 
spoken it was Rast who had tear- dimmed eyes; it was 
Rast's voice that faltered, .Anne was calm, and her calm- 
ness annoyed him. He would have liked a more demon- 
strative sorrow. But as he went down the long path on 
his way to the pier where the steamboat was waiting, the 
first whistle having already sounded, he forgot every- 
thing save his affection for her and the loneliness in 
store for him after her departure. While she was on 
their island she seemed near, but New York was another 
world. 

Down in the shadow of the great gate there was an 
ancient little cherry-tree, low and gnarled, which thrust 
one crooked arm across the path above the heads of the 
passers-by. As Rast approached he saw in the dusky 
twilight a small figure perched upon this bough, and rec- 
ognized Tita. 

"Is that you, child ?" he said, x^ausing and looking up. 
She answered by dropping into his arms like a kitten, and 
clinging to him mutely, with her face hidden on his 
shoulder. 

"What an affectionate little creature she is, after all !" 
he thought, stroking her dark hair. Then, after saying 
good -by, and giving her a kiss, he disengaged himself 
without much ceremony, and telling her to be a good girl 
and mind Miss Lois during the winter, he hurried down to 
the pier, the second whistle summoning all loiterers on 
board with shrill harshness. Tita, left alone, looked at 
her arxns, reddened by the force with which she had re- 
sisted his efforts to unclasp them. They had been press- 
ed so closely against the rough woollen cloth of his coat 
that the brown flesh showed the mark of the diagonal 
pattern. 

"It is a hurt," she said, passionately — "it is a hurt." 
Her eyes flashed, and she shook her small fist at the re- 
treating figure. Then, as the whistle sounded a third 
time, she climbed quickly to the top of the great gates, and 



mmsm.jt^m' 




SHE SAT THERE HIGH IN THE AIR WHILE THE STEAMER BACKED OUT 
FROM THE PIERS." 



ANXE. 131 

sat there higli in the air while the steamer backed out 
from the piers, turned round, and started westward 
through tlie Straits, nothing now save a moving line of 
lights, the short Northern twilight having faded into 
night. 

When the long sad day of parting was at last over, and 
everything done that her hands could find to do in that 
amount of time, Anne, in her own room alone, let her 
feelings come forth ; she was the only watcher in the old 
house, every other eye was closed in sleep. These mo- 
ments alone at night, when she allowed herself to weep 
and think, were like breathing times ; then her sorrows 
came forth. According to her nature, she did not fear or 
brood wpoii her own future so much as upon the future 
of the children ; the love in her lieart made it seem to 
her a bitter fate to be forced to leave them and the isl- 
and. The prospect of the long journey, the city school, 
the harsh aunt, did not dishearten her; they were but 
parts of her duty, the duty of her life. It was after mid- 
night ; still she sat there. The old shutters, which had 
been rattling for some time, broke their fastenings, and 
came violently against the panes with a sound like the 
report of a pistol. 

''The vrind is rising," she thought, vaguely, as she 
rose to fasten them, opening one of the windows for the 
purpose. In rushed the blast, blowing out the candle, 
driving books and i)apers across the floor, and whirling 
the girl's long loosened hair over her face and round 
her arms like the coils of a boa-constrictor. Blinded, 
breathless, she hastily let down the sash again, and peer- 
ed througli the small wrinkled panes. A few stars were 
visible between the light clouds which drove rapidly 
from north to south in long regular lines like bars, giving 
a singular a}3pearance to the sky, which the girl recog- 
nized at once, and in the recognition came back to pres- 
ent life. ''The equinoctial,'' she said to herself; "and 
one of the worst. Where can the Huron be ? Has she 
had time to reach the shelter of the islands ?" 

The Huron was the steamer which had carried Hast 
away at twilight. She was a good boat and stanch. But 



122 ANNE. 

Anne knew that craft as stanch had been wrecked and 
driven ashore during these fierce autumn gales which 
sweep over the chain of lakes suddenly, and strew their 
coasts with fragments of vessels, and steamers also, from 
the head of Superior to the foot of Ontario. If there was 
more sea-room, vessels might escape ; if there were better 
harbors, steamers might seek port; in a gale, an ocean 
captain has twenty chances for his vessel where the lake 
captain has one. Anne stood with her face pressed 
against the window for a long time ; the force of the wind 
increased. She took her candle and went across to a side 
room whose windows commanded the western pass : she 
hoped that she might see the lights of the steamer coming 
back, seeking the shelter of the island before the worst 
came. But all was dark. She returned to her room, and 
tried to sleep, but could not. Dawn found her at the 
window, wakeful and anxious. There was to be no sun 
that day, only a yellow white light. She knelt down and 
prayed; then she rose, and braided anev/ her thick brown 
hair. When she entered the sitting-room the vivid rose 
freshness which always came to her in the early morning 
was only slightly paled by her vigil, and her face seem- 
ed as usual to the boys, who were waiting for her. Be- 
fore breakfast was ready, Miss Lois arrived, tightly 
swathed in a shawl and veils, and carrying a large basket. 

"There is fresh gingerbread in there," she said; "I 
thought the boys might like some; and — it will be an ex- 
cellent day to finish those jackets, Anne. No danger of 
interruption." 

She did not mention the gale or East; neither did 
Anne. They sat down to breakfast with the boys, and 
talked about thread and buttons. But, while they were 
eating, Louis exclaimed, "Why, there's Dr. Gaston !" 
and looking up, they saw the chaplain struggling to keep 
his hat in place as he came up the path sideways, fight- 
ing the wind. 

"He should just have wrapped himself up, and scudded 
before it as I did," said Miss Lois. 

Anne ran to open the door, and the old clergyman 
came pantiug in. 



ANNE. 



123 



" It is such a miserable day that I thought you would 
like to have that dictionary, dear ; so I brought it down 
to you," he said, laying the heavy volume on the table. 

" Thanks. Have you had breakfast ?" said Anne. 

" Well, no. I thought I would come without waiting 
for it this morning, in order that you might have the 
book, you know. What ! you here, Miss Lois V 

"Yes, sir. I came to help Anne. We are going to 
have a good long day at these jackets," replied Miss Lois, 
briskly. 

They all sat down at the table again, and Gabriel was 
going to the kitchen for hot potatoes, when he spied an- 
other figure struggling through the gate and driving up 
the long path. ''Pere Michauxl" he cried, running to 
open the door. 

In another moment the priest had entered, and was 
greeting them cheerfully. "As I staid in town over- 
night, I thought, Anne, that I would come up and look 
over those books. It is a good day for it ; there will be 
no interruption. I think I shall find a number of vol- 
umes which I may wish to purchase." 

"It is very kind; I shall like to think of mj^ dear fa- 
ther's books in your hands. But have you breakfasted ?" 

No, the priest acknowledged that he had not. In truth, 
he was not hungry when he rose ; but now that he saw 
the table spread, he thought he might eat something aft- 
er all. 

So they sat down again, and Louis went out to help 
Gabriel bring in more coffee, potatoes, and eggs. There 
was a good deal of noise with the plates, a good deal of 
passing to and fro the milk, cream, butter, and salt; a 
good deal of talking on rather a high key ; a great many 
questions and answers whose irrelevancy nobody noticed. 
Dr. Gaston told a long story, and forgot the point; but 
Miss Lois laughed as heartily as though it had been acute- 
ly present. Pere Michaux then brought up the vener- 
able subject of the lost grave of Father Marquette ; and 
the others entered into it with the enthusiasm of resur- 
rectionists, and as though they had never heard of it be- 
fore. Miss Lois and Dr. Gaston even seeming to be pitted 



124 AjS'NE. 

ag:ainst each otlier in the amount of interest they showed 
concerning- the dead Jesuit. Anne said little ; in truth, 
there was no space left for her, the others keeping up so 
brisk a fire of i^hrases. It was not until Tita, coming 
into the room, remarked, as she warmed her hands, that 
breakfast was unusually early, that any stop was made, 
and then all the talkers fell upon her directly, in lieu of 
Father Marquette. Miss Lois could not imagine what 
she meant. It was sad, indeed, to see such laziness in so 
young a child. Before long she would be asking for 
breakfast in bed! Dr. Gaston scouted the idea that it 
was early; he had often been down in the village an 
hour earlier. It was a fine bracing morning for a walk. 

All this time the high ceaseless whistle of the wind, 
the roar of the water on the beach, the banging to and fro 
of the shutters here and there on the wide rambling old 
mansion, the creaking of the near trees that brushed its 
sides, and the hundred other noises of the gale, made the 
room seem strange and uncomfortable; every now and 
then the solid old frame-work vibrated as a new blast 
struck it, and through the floor and patched carpet puffs 
of cold air came up into the room and swept over their 
feet. All their voices were j)itched high to overcome 
these sounds. 

Tita listened to the remarks addressed to her, noted 
the pretense of bustle and hearty appetite, and then, turn- 
ing to the window, she said, during a momentary lull in 
the storm, " I do not wonder that you can not eat, when 
poor East is somewliere on that black water." 

Dr. Gaston pushed av/ay his plate, Miss Lois sat staring 
at the wall with her lips tightly compressed, while Anne 
covered her face with her hands to keep back the tears. 
Pere Michaux rose and began to walk up and down the 
room ; for a moment, besides his step, there was no sound 
save the roar of the storm. Tita's Avords had ended all 
pretense, clothed their fear in language, and set it up in 
their midst. From that moment, through the long day, 
there was no more disguise ; every cloud, every great wave, 
was watched, every fresh fierce blast swept through four 
anxious hearts. They were very silent now, and as the 



ANNE. 125 

storm grew wilder, even tlie boj^s became awed, and curl- 
ed themselves together on the broad windoAV-seat, speak- 
ing in whispers. At noon a vessel drove by under bare 
poles; she seemed to be unmanageable, and they could 
see the signals of the sailors as they passed the island. 
But there was no life-boat, and nothing else could live in 
that sea. At two o'clock a large bark came into view, 
and ran ashore on the reef opposite ; there she lay, pound- 
ing to pieces for two hours. They saAv the crew try to 
launch the boats; one was broken into fragments in a 
moment, then another. The third and last floated, filled 
with humanity, and in two minutes she also was^swamp- 
ed, and dark objects that they knew were men were suck- 
ed under. Then the hull of a schooner, with one mast 
standing, drove aimlessly by, so near the shore that with 
the glass they could see the features of the sailors lashed 
to the pole. 

" Oh ! if we could but save them !" said Anne. "How 
near they are !" But even as she spoke the mast fell, and 
they saw the jDOor felloAvs drown before their eyes. 

At four the Huron came into sight from the western 
pass, laboring heavily, fighting her way along inch by 
inch, but advancing. ' ' Thanks be to the Lord for this !'' 
said the chaplain, fervently. Pere Michaux took off his 
velvet cap, and reverently made the sign of the cross, 

"'Twouldn't be any harm to sing a hymn, I guess," 
said Miss Lois, wiping her eyes. Then Anne sang the 
" De Profundis." Amid the storm all the voices rose to- 
gether, the children and Miss Lois and the two priests 
joining in the old psalm of King David, which belongs 
to all alike, Romanist and Protestant, Jew and Christian, 
bond and free. 

" I do feel better, " said Miss Lois. ' ' But the steamer is 
still far off." 

" The danger will be when she attempts to turn," said 
Pere Michaux. 

They all stood at the windows watching the boat as she 
rolled and pitched in the heavy sea, seeming half the time 
to make no headway at all, but on the contrary to be 
beaten back, yet doggedly persisting. At five o'clock 



126 AN^E. 

she had reached the point where she must turn and run 
the gauntlet in order to enter port, with the gale striking 
full upon her side. Every front window in the village 
now held gazing faces, and along the piers men were 
clustered under the lee of the warehouses with ropes and 
hooks, waiting to see what they could do. The steamer 
seemed to hesitate a moment, and was driven back. 
Then she turned sharply and started in toward the piers 
with all steam on. The watchers at the Agency held 
their breath. For a moment or two she advanced rap- 
idly, then the wind struck her, and she careened until 
her smoke-stacks seemed almost to touch the water. The 
boys cried out; Miss Lois clasped her hands. But the 
boat had righted herself again by changing her course, 
and was nov/ drifting back to her old station. Again 
and again she made the attempt, now coming slowly, now 
with all the sudden speed she could muster ; but she nev- 
er advanced far before the lurch came, throwing her on 
her side, with one paddle-wheel in the air, and straining 
every timber in her frame. After half an hour of this 
work she drew oflP, and began to ply slowly up and down 
under the partial shelter of the little island opposite, as 
if resting. But there was not a place where she could 
cast anchor, nor any safety in flight; the gale would out- 
last the night, and the village harbor was her best hope. 
The wind was increasing, the afternoon sinking into 
night; every one on the island and on board also knew 
that when darkness fell, the danger, already great, would 
be trebled. Menacing and near on every side were long 
low shore-lines, which looked harmless enough, yet held 
in their sands the bones of many a drowned man, the 
ribs of many a vessel. 

"Why doesn't she make another trial ?" said Dr. Gas- 
ton, feverishly wiping his eyeglasses. ' ' There is no use 
in running up and down under that island any longer." 

"The captain is probably making everything ready 
for a final attempt," answered Pere Michaux. 

And so it seemed, for, after a few more minutes had 
passed, the steamer left her shelter, and proceeded cau- 
tiously down to the end of the little island, keeping as 



ANNE. 



127 



closely in shore as she could, climhing- each wave with her 
bows, and then pitching- down into the depth on the oth- 
er side, until it seemed as if her hind-quarters must he 
broken olf , being too long to fit into the watery hollows 
under her. Having reached the end of the islet, she 
paused, and slowly turned. 

"Now for it," said Pere Michaux. 

It was sunset-time in pleasant paii;s of the land ; here 
the raw, cold, yellow light, which had not varied since 
early morning, giving a peculiar distinctness to all ob- 
jects near or far, grew more clear for a few moments — 
the effect, perhaps, of the after-glow behind the clouds 
which had covered the sky all day unmoved, fitting as 
closely as the cover upon a dish. As the steamer start- 
ed out into the channel, those on shore could sse that 
the passengers were gathered on the deck as if prepareO 
for the worst. They were all there, even the children. 
But now no one thought any more, only watched; no 
one spoke, only breathed. The steamer was full in the 
gale, and on her' side. Yet she kept along, righting her- 
self a little now and then, and then careening anew. It 
seemed as though she would not be able to make head- 
way with her one wheel, but she did. Tlien the island- 
ers began to fear that she would be driven by too far out ; 
but the captain had allowed for that. In a few seconds 
more it became evident that she would just brush the end 
of the longest pier, with nothing to spare. Tlien the 
men on shore ran down, the wind almost taking them 
off their feet, with ropes, chains, grax^pling-irons, and 
whatever they could lay their hands on. The steamer, 
now unmanageable, was drifting rapidly toward them on 
her side, the passengers clinging to her hurricane-deck 
and to the railings. A great wave washed over her 
when not twenty feet from the pier, bearing off several 
persons, who struggled in the water a moment, and then 
disappeared. Anne covered her eyes with her hands, 
and prayed that East might not be among these. When 
she looked again, the boat was fastened by two, by ten, 
by twenty, ropes and chains to the end of the pier, bows 
on, and pulling at her halters like an unmanageable 



128 ^N^'E. 

steed, while women were throwing their children into 
the arms of those below, and men were jumping madly 
over, at the risk of breaking their ankle-bones. Any- 
thing to be on the blessed shore! In three minutes 
a hundred persons were on the pier, and East among 
them. Anne, Dr. Gaston, Pere Michaux, Miss Lois, and 
the children all recognized his figure instantly, and the 
two old men started down through the storm to meet him, 
in their excitement runnmg along like school-boys, 
hand in hand. 

Rast was safe. They brought him home to the Agency 
in triumph, and placed him in a chair before the fire. 
They all v/anted to touch him, in order to feel that he was 
really there, to be glad over him, to make much of him ; 
they all talked together. Anne came to his side with 
tender affection. He was pale and moved. Instinctive- 
ly and naturally as a child turns to its mother he turned 
to her, and, before them all, laid his head down upon her 
shoulder, and clung to her without speaking. The eld- 
ers drew away a little; the boys stopped their clamor. 
Only Tita kept her place by the youth's side, and frown- 
ed darkly on the others. 

Then they broke into a group again. Rast recovered 
himself. Dr. Gaston began to make puns, and Pere Mi^ 
chaux and Miss Lois revived the subject of Father Mar- 
quette as a safe ladder by which they could all come down 
to common life again. A visit to the kitchen was made, 
and a grand repast, dinner and supper combined, was pro- 
posed and carried into effect by Miss Lois, Pere Michaux, 
and the Irish soldier's wife, the three boys acting as 
volunteers. Even Dr. Gaston found his way to the dis- 
tant sanctuary through the series of empty rooms that 
preceded it, and proffering his services, was set to toast- 
ing bread — a duty he accomplished by attentively burn- 
ing one side of every slice, and forgetting the other, so 
that there was a wide latitude of choice, and all tastes 
were suited. With his wig iDushed back, and his cheery 
face scarlet from the heat, he presented a fine contrast to 
Pere Michaux, who, quietly and deliberatel}^ as usual, was 
seasoning a stew with scientific care, while Miss Lois, 



ANNE. 



129 



beating eggs, harried the Irish soldier's wife until she 
ran to and fro, at her wits' end. 

Tita kept guard in the sitting-room, where Anne had 
been decisively ordered to remain and entertain East; 
the child sat in her corner, watching them, her eyes nar- 
rowed under their partly closed lids. East had now re- 
covered his usual spirits, and talked gayiy ; Anne did not 
say much, but leaned back in her chair listening, thank- 
fully quiet and happy. The evening was radiant with 
contentment ; it was midnight when they separated. The 
gale was then as wild as ever ; but who cared now^ wheth- 
er the old house shook ? 

East was safe. 

At the end of the following day at last the wind ceased : 
twenty-two wrecks were counted in the Straits alone, 
with many lives lost. The dead sailors were washed 
ashore on the island beaches and down the coast, and 
buried in the sands where they were found. The friends 
of those who had been washed overboard from the steamer 
came up and searched for their bodies up and down the 
shores for miles ; some found their lost, others, after days 
of watching in vain, went away sorrowing, thinking, 
with a new idea of its significance, of that time ' ' when 
the sea shall give up her dead." 

After the storm came halcyon days. The trees now 
showed those brilliant hues of the American autumn 
which as yet no native poet has so strongly described, no 
native artist so vividly painted, that the older nations 
across the ocean have fit idea of their splendor. Here, 
in the North, the scarlet, orange, and crimson trees were 
mingled with pines, which made the green of the back- 
ground ; indeed, the islets all round were like gorgeous 
bouquets set in the deep blue of the water, and floating 
quietly there. 

East was to return to college in a few days. He was 
in such gay spirits that Miss Lois was vexed, although 
she could hardly have told why. Pere Michaux, how- 
ever, aided and encouraged all the pranks of the young, 
student. He was with him almost constantly, not re- 
turning to the hermitage at all during the time of his 

9 



130 ^NNE. 

stay ; Miss Lois was surprised to see how fond he was of 
the youth. 

"No one can see Rast a moment alone now," she said, 
complainingly ; " Pere Michaux is always with him." 

" Why do you want to see him alone ?" said Tita, from 
her corner, looking" up for a moment from her book. 

' ' Don't you know that it is rude to ask questions ?" said 
Miss Lois, sharply. But although she gave no reasons, 
it was plain that for some reason she was disappointed 
and angry. 

The last day came, the last afternoon; the smoke of 
the coming steamer could be seen beyond the blue line 
of the point. No danger now of storm; the weather 
would be fair for many days. Pere Michaux had pro- 
posed that Anne, Rast, and himself should go up to the 
heights behind the house and watch the sunset hues for 
the last time that year ; they were to come back to the 
Agency in time to meet Dr. Gaston and Miss Lois, and 
take tea there all together, before the steamer's departure. 
Tita announced that she wished to go to the heights also. 

"Come along then, Puss," said Rast, giving her his 
hand. 

They set out through the garden, and up the narrow 
winding path; but the ascent was steep, and the priest 
climbed slowly, pausing now and then to take breath. 
Rast staid with him, while Anne strolled forward ; Tita 
waited with Rast. They had been sitting on a crag for 
several minutes, when suddenly Rast exclaimed : ' ' Hallo ! 
there's Spotty's dog ! he has been lost for three days, the 
scamp. I'll go up and catch him, and be back in a mo- 
ment." While still speaking he was already scaling the 
rocks above them, not following the path by which Anne 
had ascended, but swinging himself up, hand over hand, 
with the dexterity and strength of a mountaineer; in a 
minute or two he was out of sight. Spotty's dog was a 
favorite in the garrison. Spotty, a dilapidated old Irish 
soldier, being his owner in name. Spotty said that the 
dog had " followed" him, when he was passing through 
Detroit ; if he did, he had never repeated the act, but had 
persistently gone in the opposite direction ever since. But 



ANNE. 131 

the men always went out and hunted for him all over the 
island, sooner or later finding him and bringing him hack ; 
for they liked to see him dance on his mournful hind- 
legs, go through the drill, and pretend to be dead — feats 
which once formed parts of his repertoire as member of 
the travelling canine troupe v/liich he had deserted at De- 
troit. It was considered quite an achievement to bring 
back this accomplished animal, and East was not above 
the glory. But it Avas not to be so easy as he had imag- 
ined : several minutes passed and he did not return, Spot- 
ty "s dog having shown his thin nose and one eye but an 
instant at the top of the height, and then withdrawn them, 
leaving no trace behind. 

"We will go up the path, and join Anne," said Pere 
Michaux ; " we will not wait longer for East. He can 
find us there as well as here." 

They started; but after a few steps the priest's foot 
slipped on a rolling stone ; he lost his balance, and half 
fell, half sank to the ground, fortunately directly along 
the narrow path, and not beyond its edge. When he at 
temx)ted to rise, he found that his ankle was strained : he 
was a large man, and he had fallen heavily. Tita bound 
up the place as well as she could with his handkerchief 
and her own formed into a bandage ; but at best he could 
only hobble. He might manage to go down the path to 
the house, but evidently he could not clamber further. 
Again they waited for East, but he did not come. They 
called, but no one answered. They were perched half 
way up the white cliff, where no one could hear them. 
Tita's whole face had grown darkly red, as though the 
blood would burst through ; she looked coi^per-colored, 
and her expression was full of repressed impatience. Pere 
Michaux, himself more perturbed and angry than so 
slight a hurt would seem to justify, happening to look at 
her, was seized with an idea. "Run up, child," he said, 
' ' and join Anne ; do not leave her again. Tell her what 
has happened, and — mind what I say exactly, Tita — do 
not leave her." 

Tita was off up the path and out of sight in an instant. 
The old priest, left to himself, hobbled slowly down the 



132 ANNE. 

hill and across the garden to the Agency, not without 
some difficulty and pain. 

Anne had gone up to the heights, and seated herself in 
good faith to wait for the others ; Rast had gone after the 
dog in good faith, and not to seek Anne. Yet they met, 
and the others did not find them. 

The dog ran away, and Rast after him, down the north 
path for a mile, and then straight into the fir wood, where 
nothing can be caught, man or dog. So Rast came back, 
not by the path, but through the forest, and found Anne 
sitting in a little nook among the arbor vitae, where there 
was an opening, like a green window, overlooking the 
harbor. He sat down by her side, and fanned himself 
with his hat for a few moments, and then he went down 
to find Pere Michaux and bring him up thither. But by 
that time the priest had reached the house, and he re- 
turned, saying that he saw by the foot-marks that the old 
man had for some reason gone down the hill again, leav- 
ing them to watch their last sunset alone. He threw him- 
self down by Anne's side, and together they looked 
through their green casement. 

' ' The steamer has turned the point, " said Anne. 

They both watched it in silence. They heard the even- 
ing gun from the fort. 

' ' I shall never forgive myself, Rast, for having let you 
go before so carelessly. When tlie gale began that night, 
every blast seemed to go through my heart." 

"I thought you did not appear to care much," said 
Rast, in an aggrieved tone. 

' ' Did you notice it, then ? It was only because I have 
to repress myself every moment, dear, lest I should give 
way entirely. You know I too must go far away — far 
away from all I love. I feel it very deeply." 

She turned toward him as she spoke, with her eyes full 
of tears. Her hat was ofi', and her face, softened by 
emotion, looked for the first time to his eyes womanly. 
For generally that frank brow, direct gaze, and imper- 
sonal expression gave her the air of a child. Rast had 
never thought that Anne was beautiful; he had never 
thought of himself as her lover. He was very fond of 




"you know I TOO MUST GO FAR AWAY.' 



ANNE. 133 

her, of course; and she was very fond of him; and he 
meant to be good to her always. But that was all. Now, 
however, suddenly a new feeling- came over him ; he re- 
alized that her eyes were very lovely, and that her lips 
trembled with emotion. True, even then she did not turn 
from him, rather toward him ; but he was too young him- 
self to understand these indications, and, carried away by 
her sweetness, his own affection, and the impulse of the 
moment, he put his arm round her, and drew her toward 
him, sure that he loved her, and especially sure that she 
loved him. Poor Anne, who would soon have to part 
with him — dear Anne, his old playmate and friend ! 

Half an hour later he came into the Agency sitting- 
room, where the others were waiting, with a quick step 
and sparkling eyes, and, with the tone and manner of a 
young conqueror, announced, "Dr. Gaston, and all of 
you, I am going to marry Annet. We are engaged." 



Chapter VIII. 



" Shades of evening, close not o'er us, 
Leave our lonely bark awhile ; 
Morn, alas ! will not restore us 
Yonder dear and fading isle. 
Though 'neath distant skies we wander, 

Still with thee our thoughts must dwell; 
Absence makes the heart grow fonder — 
Isle of beauty, fare thee well !" 

— Thomas Haynes Bayly. 

"We are engaged." 

Dr. Gaston, who was standing, sat down as though 
struck down. Miss Lois jumped up, and began to laugh 
and cry in a breath. Pere Michaux, who was sitting 
with his injured foot resting on a stool, ground his hands 
down suddenly on the arms of his chair with a sharp dis- 
pleasure visible for an instant on his face. But only for 
an instant ; it was gone before any one saw it. 

"Oh, my darling boy!" said Miss Lois, with her arms 
round Past's neck. "I always knew you would. You 
are made for each other, and always were. Now we slial] 



134 



ANNE. 



have you both with us always, thank the Lord!" Then 
she sobbed again , and took a fresh and tighter hold of him. 
' ' I'll take the boys, dear ; you need not be troubled with 
them. And 111 come over here and live, so that you and 
Annet can have the church-house ; it's in much better re- 
pair ; only there should be a new chimney. The dearest 
wish of my heart is now fulfilled, and I am quite ready 
to die." 

East was kind always; it was simply impossible for 
him to say or do anything which could hurt the feelings 
of any one present. Such a course is sometimes contra- 
dictory, since those who are absent likewise have their feel- 
ings ; but it is always at the moment agreeable. He kiss- 
ed Miss Lois affectionately, thanked her, and led her to 
her chair; nor did he stop there, but stood beside her 
with her hand in his until she began to recover her com- 
posure, wipe her eyes, and smile.' Then he went across 
to Dr. Gaston, his faithful and early friend. 

"I hope I have your approval, sir?" he said, looking 
very tall and handsome as he stood by the old man's 
chair. 

"Yes, yes," said the chaplain, extending his hand. 
"I was — I was startled at first, of course; you have 
both seemed like children to me. But if it must be, it 
must be. Only —make her happy. East ; make her happy." 

"I shall try, sir." 

' ' Come, doctor, acknowledge that you have always ex- 
pected it," said Miss Lois, breaking into permanent sun- 
shine, and beginning to wipe her spectacles in a business- 
like way, which showed that the moisture was ended for 
the present. 

"No — yes; I hardly know what I have expected," an- 
swered the chaplain, still a little sufi'ocated, and speaking 
thickly. " I do not think I have expected anything." 

' ' Is there any one else you would prefer to have East 
marry? Answer me that." 

"No, no; certainly not." 

"Is there any one you would prefer to have Anne 
marry ?" 

"Why need she marry at all?" said the chaplain, 



ANNE. 135 

boldly, breaking through the chain of questions clos- 
ing round him. ''I am sure you yourself are a bright 
example. Miss Hinsdale, of the merits of single life." 

But, to his surprise. Miss Lois turned upon him. 

"What! have Anne live through my loneliness, my 
always-being-misunderstood-ness, my general sense of a 
useless ocean within me, its breaking waves dashed high 
on a stern and rock-bound coast?" she said, quoting ve- 
hemently from the only poem she knew. ' ' Never !" 

While Dr. Gaston was still gazing at her, East turned 
to Pere Michaux. ' ' I am sure of your approval, " he said, 
smiling confidently. "I have had no doubt of that." 

"Haven't you?" said the priest, dryly. 

"No, sir: you have always been my friend." 

' ' And I shall continue to be, " said Pere Michaux. But 
he rose as he spoke, and hobbled into the hall, closing 
the door behind him. 

Tita was hurrying through the garden on her way from 
the heights ; he waited for her. 

"Where have you been ?" he asked, sternly. - 

The child seemed exhausted, her breath came in pant- 
ing gasps ; her skirt was torn, her hair streaming, and the 
dark red hue of her face was changed to a yellow pallor. 

' ' I have run and run, I have followed and followed, I 
have listened with my ear on the ground ; I have climbed 
trees to look, I have torn a path through bushes, and I 
have not found them," she said, huskily, a slight froth on 
her dry lips as she spoke, her eyes bright and feverish. 

' ' They are here, " said Pere Michaux ; ' ' they have been 
at home some time. What can you have been about, An- 
gelique ?" 

"I have told you," said the child, rolling her apron 
tightly in her small brown hands. ' ' I followed his track. 
He went down the north path. I traced him for a mile; 
then I lost him. In the fir wood. Then I crept, and 
looked, and listened." 

"You followed Past, then, when I told you to go to 
Anne! Enough. I thought, at least, you were quick, 
Tita; but it seems you are dull — dull as an owl," said the 
priest, turning away. He hobbled to the front door and 



136 ANNE. 

sat down on the threshold. ' ' After all my care, " he said 
to himself, " to be foiled by a rolling stone 1" 

Through the open window he heard Miss Lois ask 
where Anne was. "Did she not come back with you, 
East?" 

*' Yes, but she was obliged to go directly to the kitchen. 
Something about the tea, I believe." 

" Oh no; it was because she did not want to face us," 
said Miss Lois, archly. "I will go and bring her, the 
dear child !" 

Pere Michaux smiled contemptuously in the twilight 
outside ; but he seemed to have recovered his equanimity 
also. "Something about the tea!" he said to himself. 
"Something about the tea!" He rose and hobbled into 
the sitting-room again w^ith regained cheerfulness. Miss 
Lois was leading in Anne. "Here she is," said the old 
maid. " I found her; hiding, of course, and trembling." 

Anne, smiling, turned down her cuffs, and began to 
light the lamp as usual. ' ' I had to watch the broiling of 
the birds," she said. ' ' You would not like to have them 
burned, would you ?" 

Pere Michaux now looked thoroughly happy. "By 
no means," he replied, hobbling over and patting her on 
the head — "by no means, my dear." Then he laughed 
contentedly, and sat down. The others might talk now ; 
he was satisfied. 

When the lamj) was lighted, everybody kissed Anne 
formally, and w^ished her happiness, Pere Michaux going 
through the little rite with his finest Parisian courtesy. 
The boys added their caresses, and Gabriel said, "Of 
course 7iow you won't go away, Annet ?" 

"Yes, dear, I must go just the same," said the sister. 
" Certainly, " said Pere Michaux. "Erastus can not 
marry yet; he must go through college, and afterward 
establish himself in life." 

"They could be married next spring," suggested Miss 
Lois: "we could help them at the beginning." 

' ' Young Pronando is less of a man than I suppose, if he 
allows any one save himself to take care of his wife," said 
Pere Michaux, sententiously. 



ANNE. 137 

" Of course I shall not," said East, throwing back his 
handsome head with an air of pride. 

' ' That is right ; stand by your decision," said the priest. 
"And now let us have tea. Enough has happened for 
one day, I think, and Rast must go at dawn. He can 
write as many letters as he pleases, but in real life he 
has now to show us what metal he is made of; I do not 
doubt but that it will prove pure ore." 

Dr. Gaston sat silent ; he drank his tea, and every now 
and then looked at Anne. She was cheerful and con- 
tented ; her eyes rested upon East with confidence ; she 
smiled when he spoke as if she liked to hear his voice; 
but of consciousness, embarrassment, hesitation, there 
was not a trace. The chaplain rubbed his forehead again 
and again, and pushed his wig so far back that it looked 
like a brown aureole. But if he was perplexed, Miss Lois 
was not ; the happy old maid su|)i3lied all the conscious- 
ness, archness, and sentimental necessities of the occasion. 
She had kept them suppressed for years, and had a large 
store on hand. She radiated romance. 

While they were taking tea, Tita entered, languid and 
indifferent as a city lady. No, she did not care for any 
tea, she said ; and when the boys, all together, told her 
the great news, she merely smiled, fanned herself, and said 
she had long expected it. 

Miss Lois looked up sharply, with the intention of con- 
tradicting this statement, but Tita gazed back at her so 
calmly that she gave it up. 

After Pere Michaux had left her in the hall, she had 
stolen to the back door of the sitting-room, laid her ear on 
the floor close to the crack under it, and overheard all. 
Then, trembling and silent, she crept up to her own room, 
bolted the door, and, throwing herself down upon the 
floor, rolled to and fro in a sort of frenzy. But she was a 
supple, light little creature, and made no sound. When 
her anger had spent itself, and she had risen to her feet, 
those below had no consciousness that the ceiling above 
them had been ironed all over on its upper side by the 
contact of a fierce little body, hot and palpitating wildly. 

Pere Michaux threw himself into that evening with 



138 ANNE. 

all the powers lie possessed fully alert ; there were given 
so many hours to fill, and he filled them. The young 
lover Rast, the sentimental Miss Lois, the perplexed old 
chaplain, even the boys, all gave way to his influence, 
and listened or laughed at his will. Only Tita sat apart, 
silent and cold. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock — it was cer- 
tainly time to separate. But the boys, although sleepy and 
irritable, refused to go to bed, and fought with each oth- 
er on the hearth-rug. Midnight ; the old priest's flow of 
fancy and wit was still in full play, and the circle un- 
broken. 

At last Dr. Gaston found himself yawning. "The 
world will not stop, even if we do go to bed, my friends," 
he said, rising. "We certainly ought not to talk or list- 
en longer to-night." 

Pere Michaux rose also, and linked his arm in East's. 
"I will walk home w^itli you, young sir," he said, cor- 
dially. ' ' Miss Lois, we will take you as far as your gate. " 

Miss Lois was willing, but a little uncertain in her 
movements ; inclined toward delay. Would Anne lend 
her a shawl ? And, when the young girl had gone up 
stairs after it, would Rast take the candle into the hall, 
lest she should stumble on her way down ? 

"She will not stumble," said Pere Michaux, "She 
never stumbled in her life, Miss Lois. Of what are you 
thinking ?" 

Miss Lois put on the shawl ; and then, when they had 
reached the gate, "Run back, Rast," she said; "I have 
left my knitting." 

"Here it is," said the priest, promptly producing it. 
" I saw it on the table, and took charge of it." 

Miss Lois was very much obliged ; but she was sure she 
heard some one calling. Perhaps it was Anne. If Rast — 

" Only a night-bird," said Pere Michaux, walking on. 
He left Miss Lois at the church-house; and then, linking 
his arm again in Rast's, accompanied him to his lodg- 
ings. " I am going to give you a parting present," he 
said — "a watch, the one I am wearing now. I have an- 
other, which will do very well for this region." 

Tho priest's watch w^as a handsome one, and Rast was 



ANNE. 139 

still young enough to feel an immense satisfaction in 
sucli a possession. He took it with many thanks, and 
frankly expressed delight. The old priest accompanied 
his gift with fatherly good'' wishes and advice. It was 
now so late that he would take a bed in the house, he 
thought. In this way, too, he would be with East, and 
see the last of him. 

But love laughs at parsons. 

Pere Michaux saw his charge to bed, and went to bed 
himself in an adjoining room. He slept soundly; but 
at the first peep of dawn his charge was gone — gone to 
meet Anne on the heights, as agreed between them the 
night before. 

O wise Pere Michaux ! 

The sun was not yet above the horizon, but Anne was 
there. The youth took her hands in his, and looked at 
her earnestly. He was half surprised himself at what he 
had done, and he looked at her again to see how it had hap- 
pened. All his life from earliest childhood she had been 
his dearest companion and friend ; but now she was his be- 
trothed wife, would she be in any way different ? The sun 
came up, and showed that she was just the same — calm, 
clear-eyed, and sweet- voiced. What more could he ask ? 

" Do you love me, Annet ?" he said more than once, 
looking at her as though she ought to be some new and 
only half-comj)i'ehended person. 

" You know I do," she answered. Then, as he asked 
again, "Why do you ask me ?" she said. "Has not my 
whole life shown it^' 

"Yes," he answered, growing more calm. " I believe 
you have loved me all your life, Annet." 

" I have," replied the girl. 

He kissed her gently. ' ' I shall always be kind to you, " 
he said. Then, with a half-sigh, "You will like to live 
here?" 

" It is my home, Past. However, other places will not 
seem strange after I have seen the great city. For of 
course I must go to New York, just the same, to learn to 
be a teacher, and help the children : we may be separated 
for years." 



140 ANNE. 

' ' Oh no ; I shall be able to take care of you all before 
long"," said East, grandly. "As soon as I have been 
through college I shall look about and decide upon some- 
thing. Would you like me to be a lawyer ? Or a sur- 
geon ? Then there is always the army. Or we might 
have a farm." 

" There is only Frobisher's." 

"Oh, you mean here on the island ? Well, Frobisher's 
would do. We could repair the old house, and have a 
pony-cart, and drive in to town." Here the steamer 
sounded its first whistle. That meant that it would start 
in half an hour. Rast left the future and his plans in 
mid-air, and took Anne in his arms with real emotion. 
"Grood-by, dear, good-by," he said. "Do not grieve, or 
allow yourself to be lonely. I shall see you soon in 
some way, even if I have to go to New York for the 
purpose. Remember that you are my betrothed wife now. 
That thought will comfort you." 

' ' Yes, " said Anne, her sincere eyes meeting his. Then 
she clung to him for a few moments, sobbing. "You 
must go away, and I must go away," she said, amid her 
tears: "nothing is the same any more. Father is dead, 
and the whole world will be between us. Nothing is the 
same any more. Nothing is the same." 

"Distance is nothing nowadays," said the youth, 
soothing her ; " I can reach you in almost no time, 
Annet." 

"Yes, but nothing is the same any more ; nothing ever 
will be the same ever again," she sobbed, oppressed for 
the first time in her life by the vague uncertainties of 
the future. 

"Oh yes, it will," said her companion, decidedly. "I 
will come back here if you wish it so much, and you shall 
come back, and we will live here on this same old island 
all our lives. A man has but to choose his home, you 
know." 

Anne looked somewhat comforted. Yet only part of 
her responded to his words; she still felt that nothing 
would ever be quite the same again. She could not bring 
back her father; she could not bring back their long hap- 



ANNE. 141 

py childhood. The door was closed behind them, and 
they must now go out into the wide world. 

The second whistle sounded — another fifteen minutes 
gone. They ran down the steep path together, meeting 
Miss Lois on her way up, a green woollen hood on her 
head as a protection against the morning air. 

" You will want a ring, my dears," she said, breathless- 
ly, as she kissed them — "an engagement ring; it is the 
custom, and fortunately I have one for you." 

With a mixture of smiles and tears of delight and ex- 
citement, she took from a little box an old-fashioned 
ring, and handed it to East. 

' ' It was your mother's, dear, " she said to Anne ; ' ' your 
father gave it to me as a memento of her when you were 
a baby. It is most fit that you should wear it." 

Rast examined the slender little circlet without much 
admiration. It was a hoop of very small rubies placed 
close together, with as little gold visible as was possible. 
"I meant to give Annet a diamond," he said, with the 
tone of a young duke. 

"Oh no, Rast," exclaimed the girl. 

"But take this for the present," urged the old maid. 
' ' You must not let her go from you without one ; it would 
be a bad sign. Put it on yourself, Rast ; I want to see 
you do it." 

Rast slipped the circlet into its place on Anne's finger, 
and then, with a little flourish which became him well, he 
uncovered his head, bent his knee, and raised the hand 
to his lips. 

"But you have put it on the right hand," said Miss 
Lois, in dismay. 

' ' It does not make any difference, " said Rast. ' ' And 
besides, I like the right hand ; it means more. " 

Rast did not admire the old-fashioned ring, but to Anne 
it was both beautiful and sacred. She gazed at it with 
a lovely light in her eyes, and an earnest thoughtfulness. 
Any one could see how gravely she regarded the little cer- 
emony. 

When they came back to the house. Dr. Gaston was al- 
ready there, and Pere Michaux was limping up the path 



142 ANNE. 

from the gate. He caught sight of East and Anne to- 
gether. ' ' Check ! " he said to himself. ' ' So much for 
being a stupid old man. Outwitted yesterday by a roll- 
ing stone, and to-day by your own inconceivable dullness. 
And you gave away your watch — did you ? — to prevent 
what has happened ! The girl has probably bound herself 
formally, and now you will have her conscience against 
you as well as all the rest. Bah !" 

But while thinking this, he came forward and greet- 
ed them all happily and cheerfully, whereas the old chap- 
lain, who really had no especial objection to the engage- 
ment, was cross and silent, and hardly greeted anybody. 
He knew that he was ill-tempered, and wondered why 
he should be. ' ' Anything unexpected is apt to disturb 
the mind," he remarked, apologetically, to the priest, tak- 
ing out his handkerchief and rubbing his forehead vio- 
lently, as if to restore equanimity by counter-circulation. 
But however cross or quiet the others might be. Miss Lois 
beamed for all ; she shed forth radiance like Roman can- 
dles even at that early hour, when the air was still chill 
and the sky gray with mist. The boys came down stairs 
with their clothes half on, and then Rast said good-by, 
and hurried down to the pier, and they all stood together 
on the old piazza, and watched the steamer back out into 
the stream, turn round, and start westward, the point of 
the island soon hiding it from view. Then Dr. Gaston 
took his unaccountable ill temper homeward, Pere Mi- 
chaux set sail for the hermitage, Anne sat down to sew, 
and only Miss Lois let every-day life take care of itself, 
and cried on. 

"I know there will be no more storms," she said ; "it 
isn't that. But it is everything that has happened, Anne 
dear: the engagement, and the romance of it all !" 

Tita now entered : she had not appeared before. She 
required that fresh coffee should be prepared for her, and 
she obtained it. For the Irish soldier's wife was almost 
as much afraid of her as the boys were. She glanced at 
Miss Lois s happy tears, at Anne's ruby ring, at the gen- 
eral disorder. 

"And all this for a mere boy !" she said, superbly. 



ANNE. 



14;^ 



Miss Lois stopped crying from sheer astonishment. 
" And pray, may I ask, what are you ?" she demanded. 

' ' A g-irl ; and about on a line with the boy referred to, " 
replied Miss Tita, composedly. ' ' Anne is much too old. " 

The boys gave a laugh of scorn. Tita turned and look- 
ed at them, and they took to the woods for the day. Miss 
Lois cried no more, but began to sew ; there was a vague 
dread in her heart as to what the winter would be with 
Tita in the church-house. " If I could only cut off her 
hair!" she thought, with a remembrance of Samson. 
"Never was such hair seen on any child before." 

As Tita sat on her low bench, the two long thick braids 
of her black hair certainly did touch the floor ; and most 
New England women, who, whether from the nipping 
climate or their Roundhead origin, have, as a class, rather 
scanty locks, would have agreed with Miss Lois that ' ' such 
a mane" was unnatural on a girl of that age — indeed, 
intolerable. . 

Amid much sewing, planning, and busy labor, time flew 
on. Dr. Gaston did not pretend to do anything else now 
save come down early in the morning to the Agency, 
and remain nearly all day, sitting in an arm-chair, some- 
times with a book before him, but hardly turning a page. 
His dear young pupil, his almost child, was going away. 
He tried not to think how lonely he should be without her. 
Pere Michaux came frequently ; he spoke to Tita with a 
new severity, and often with a slight shade of sarcasm in 
his voice. ' ' Are you not a little too severe with her ?" ask- 
ed Miss Lois one day, really fearing lest Tita, in revenge, 
might go out on some dark night and set fire to the house. 

"He is my ^Driest, isn't he, and not yours? He shall 
order me to do what he pleases, and I shall do it," answer- 
ed the small person whom she had intended to defend. 

And now every day more and more beautiful grew the 
hues on the trees ; it was a last intensity of color before 
the long, cold, dead-white winter. All the maple and 
oak leaves were now scarlet, orange, or crimson, each 
hue vivid ; they died in a glory to which no tropical leaf 
ever attains. The air was warm, hazy, and still — the 
true air of Indian summer; and as if to justify the term, 



144 ANNE. 

the Indians on the mainland and islands were busy bring- 
ing potatoes and game to the village to sell, fishing, cut- 
ting wood, and begging, full of a tardy activity before the 
approach of winter. Anne watched them crossing in 
their canoes, and landing on the beach, and when occa- 
sionally the submissive, gentle-eyed squaws, carrying 
their little pappooses, came to the kitchen door to beg, she 
herself went out to see them, and bade the servant give 
them something. They were Chippewas, dark-skinned 
and silent, wearing short calico skirts, and a blanket 
drawn over their heads. Patient and uncomplaining by 
nature, they performed almost all the labor on their small 
farms, cooked for their lords and masters, and took care 
of the children, as their share of the duties of life, the hus- 
bands being warriors, and above common toil. Anne 
knew some of these Chippewa women personally, and 
could talk to them in their own tongue ; but it was not 
old acquaintance which made her go out and see them 
now. It was the feeling that they belonged to the island, 
to the life which she must soon leave behind. She felt 
herself clinging to everything — to the trees, to the white 
cliffs, to the very sunshine — like a person dragged along 
against his will, who catches at every straw. 

The day came at last ; the eastern-bound steamer was at 
the pier; Anne must go. Dr. Gaston's eyes were wet; 
with choked utterance he gave her his benediction. Miss 
Lois Avas depressed; but her depression had little oppor- 
tunity to make itself felt, on account of the clamor and 
wild behavior of the boys, which demanded her constant 
attention. The clamor, however, was not so alarming as 
the velvety goodness of Tita. What could the child be 
planning ? The poor old maid sighed, as she asked her- 
self this question, over the life that lay before her. But 
twenty such lives would not wear out Lois Hinsdale. 
Pere Michaux was in excellent spirits, and kept them all 
in order. He calmed the boys, encouraged Anne, cheer- 
ed the old chaplain and Miss Lois, led them all down the 
street and on board the boat, then back on the pier again, 
where they could see Anne standing on the high deck 
above them. He shook the boys when they howled in 



ANNE. 145 

their grief too loudly, and as the steamer moved out into 
the stream he gave his arm to Miss Lois, who, for the mo- 
ment forgetting everything save that the dear little baby 
Avhom she had loved so long was going away, burst into 
convulsive tears. Tita sat on the edge of the pier, and 
watched the boat silently. She did not speak or wave her 
handkerchief ; she shed no tears. But long after the oth- 
ers had gone home, when the steamer was a mere speck 
low down on the eastern horizon, she sat there still. 

Yes, Anne was gone. 

And now that she was gone, it was astonishing to see 
what a void was left. No one had especially valued or 
praised her while she was there ; she was a matter of course. 
But now that she was absent, the whole life of the village 
seemed changed. There was no one to lead the music on 
Sundays, standing by the organ and singing clearly, and 
Miss Lois's playing seemed now doubly dull and mechan- 
ical. There was no one going up to the fort at a certain 
hour every morning, passing the windows where the fort 
ladies sat, with books under her arm. There was no one 
working in the Agency garden ; no one coming with a 
quick step into the butcher's little shoj) to see what he 
had, and consult him, not without hidden anxiety, as to 
the possibility of a rise in prices. There was no one sew- 
ing on the piazza, or going out to find the boys, or sail- 
ing over to the hermitage with the four black-eyed chil- 
dren, wiio plainly enough needed even more holy in- 
struction than they obtained. They all knew everything 
she did, and all her ways. And as it was a small commu- 
nity, they missed her sadly. The old Agency, too, seemed 
to become suddenly dilapidated, almost ruinous ; the boys 
were undeniably rascals, and Tita ' ' a little minx." Miss 
Lois was without doubt a dogmatic old maid, and the 
chaplain not what he used to be, poor old man — fast break- 
ing wp. Only Pere Michaux bore the test unaltered. 
But then he had not leaned upon this young girl as the 
others had leaned — the house and garden, the chaplain as 
well as the children: the strong young nature had in one 
way supported them all. 

Meanwhile the girl herself was journeying down the 
10 



146 ANNE. 

lake. She stood at the stern, watching the island grow 
distant, grow purple, grow lower and lower on the surface 
of the water, until at last it disappeared ; then she covered 
her face and wept. After this, like one who leaves the 
vanished past behind him, and resolutely faces the fu- 
ture, she went forward to the bow and took her seat tliere. 
Night came on ; she remained on deck through the even- 
ing : it seemed less lonely there than among the passen- 
gers in the cabin. She knew the captain ; and she had 
been especially placed in his charge, also, by Pere Mi- 
chaux, as far as one of the lower-lake ports, where she 
was to be met by a priest and taken to the eastern-bound 
train. The captain, a weather-beaten man, past middle 
age, came after a while and sat down near her. 

"What is that red light over the shore-line?" said 
Anne to her taciturn companion, who sat and smoked 
near by, protecting her paternally by his presence, but 
having apparently few words, and those husky, at his 
command. 

"Fire in the woods." 

" Is it not rather late in the season for a forest fire ?" 

"Well, there it is," answered the captain, declining 
discussion of the point in face of obvious fact. 

Anne had already questioned him on the subject of 
light-houses. Would he like to live in a light-house ? 

No, he would not. 

But they might be pleasant places in summer, with 
the blue water all round them: she had often thought 
she would like to live in one. 

Well, he wouldn't. 

But why ? 

Resky places sometimes when the wind blew : give him 
a good stiddy boat, now. 

After a time they came nearer to the burning forest. 
Anne could see the great columns of flame shoot up into 
the sky ; the woods were on fire for miles. She knew that 
the birds were flying, dizzy and blinded, before the terri- 
ble conqueror, that the wild-cats were crying like chil- 
dren, that the small wolves were howling, and that the 
more timid wood creatures were cowering behind fallen 



ANNE. 



14; 



trunks, their eyes dilated and ears laid flat in terror. 
She knew all this because she had often heard it de- 
scribed, fires miles long in the -pine forests being frequent 
occurrences in the late summer and early autumn; bat 
she had never before seen with her own eyes the lurid 
splendor, as there was no unbroken stretch of pineries on 
the Straits. She sat silently watching the great clouds 
of red light roll u]3 into the dark sky, and the shower of 
sparks higher still. The advance-guard was of lapping 
tongues that caught at and curled through the green 
wood far in front ; then came a wall of clear orange-col- 
ored roaring fire, then the steady incandescence that was 
consuming the hearts of the great trees, and behind, the 
long range of dying fires like coals, only each coal was 
a tree. It grew late ; she went to her state-room in order 
that the captain might be relieved from his duty of guard. 
But for several hours loyger she sat by her small window, 
watching the flames, which turned to a long red line as 
the steamer's course carried her farther from the shore. 
She was thinking of those she had left behind, and of 
the island ; of Rast, and her own betrothal. The betroth- 
al seemed to her quite natural ; they had always been to- 
gether in the past, and now they would always be togeth- 
er in the future ; she was content that it was so. She 
knew so little of the outside world that few forebodings 
as to her own immediate present troubled her. She was 
on her way to a school where she would study hard, so as 
soon to be able to teach, and help the children ; the boys 
were to be educated one by one, and after the first year, 
perhaps, she could send for Tita, since Miss Lois never un- 
derstood the child aright, failing to comprehend her pecul- 
iar nature, and making her, poor little thing, uncomfort- 
able. It would be a double relief — to Miss Lois as well as 
Tita. It was a pity that her grand-aunt was so hard and 
ill-tempered ; but probably she was old and infirm. Per- 
haps if she could see Tita, she might take a fancy to the 
child ; Tita was so small and so soft-voiced, whereas she, 
Anne, was so overgrown and awkward. She gave a 
thought of regret to her own deficiencies, but hardly a 
sigh. They were matters of fact which she had long ago 



148 ANNE. 

accepted. The coast fire had now faded into a line of 
red dots and a dull light above them; she knelt down 
and prayed, not without the sadness which a lonely 
young traveller might naturally feel on the broad dark 
lake. 

At the lower-lake port she was met by an old French 
priest, one of Pere Michaux's friends, who took her to 
the railway station in a carriage, bought her ticket, 
checked her trunk, gave her a few careful words of in- 
struction as to the journey, and then, business matters 
over, sat down by her side and talked to her with en- 
chanting politeness and ease until the moment of depart- 
ure. Pere Michaux had arranged this : although not of 
their faith, Anne was to travel all the way to New York 
in the care of the Eoman Catholic Church, represented 
by its priests, handed from one to the next, and met at the 
entrance of the great city by another, who would cross 
the river for the purpose, in order that her young island 
eyes might not be confused by the crowd and turmoil. 
At first Dr. Gaston had talked of escorting Anne in per- 
son ; but it was so long since he had travelled anywhere, 
and he was so absent-minded, that it was evident even 
to himself that Anne would in reality escort him. Miss 
Lois had the children, and of course could not leave 
them. 

"I would go myself if there was any necessity for it," 
said Pere Michaux, ' ' but there is not. Let me arrange it, 
and I promise you that Anne shall reach her school in 
safety; I Avill have competent persons to meet her all 
along the route— unless, indeed, you have friends of your 
own upon whom you prefer to rely ?" 

This was one of the little winds which Pere Michaux 
occasionally sent over the self-esteem of his two Protest- 
ant companions : he could not help it. Dr. Gaston frown- 
ed : he had not an acquaintance between New York and 
the island, and Pere Michaux knew it. But Miss Lois, 
undaunted, rushed into the fray. 

" Oh, certainly, it would be quite easy for us to have 
her met by friends on the way," she began, making for 
the moment common and Protestant cause with Dr. 



ANNE. 149 

Gaston; "it would require only a few letters. In New 
England I should have my own family connections to 
call upon — persons of the highest respectability, de- 
scendants, most of them, of the celebrated patriot Israel 
Putnam." 

"Certainly," replied Pere Michaux. "I understand. 
Then I will leave Anne to you." 

"But unfortunately, as Anne is going to New York, 
not Boston, my connections do not live along the route, 
exactly," continued Miss Lois, the adverb standing for a 
small matter of a thousand miles or so; "nor," she add- 
ed, again admitting Dr. Gaston to a x^artnership, ' ' can w^e 
make them." 

"There remain, then, the pastors of your church," said 
the priest. 

"Certainly — the pastors. It will be the simplest thing 
in the world for Dr. Gaston to wHte to them ; they w^ill be 
delighted to take charge of any friend of ours." 

The chaplain pushed his wig back a little, and murmur- 
ed, "Church Almanac." 

Miss Lois glanced at him angrily. "I am sure I do 
not know what Dr. Gaston means by mentioning ' Church 
Almanac' in that way," she said, sharply. "We know 
most of the prominent pastors, of course. Dr. Shepherd, 
for instance, and Dr. Dell." 

Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Dell, who occasionally came up 
to the island during the summer for a few days of rest, 
lived in the lower -lake town where Anne's long rail- 
w^ay journey began. They were not pastors, but rectors, 
and the misuse of the terms grated on the chaplain's 
Anglican ear. But he was a patient man, and accus- 
tomed now to the heterogeneous phrasing of the Western 
border. 

"And besides," added Miss Lois, triumphantly, "there 
is the bishop !" 

Now the bishop lived five miles farther. It was not 
evident, therefore, to the ordinary mind what aid these 
reverend gentlemen could give to Anne, all living, as 
they did, at the western beginning of her railway jour- 
ney ; but Miss Lois, who, like others of her sex, possessed 



150 ANNE. 

the power (unattainable by man) of rising above mere 
logical sequence, felt that she had conquered. 

" I have no bishops to offer," said Pere Michaux, with 
mock humility; "only ordinary priests. I will there- 
fore leave Anne to your care. Miss Lois — yours and Dr. 
Gaston's." 

So the discussion ended, and Miss Lois came off with 
Protestant colors flying. None the less Pere Michaux 
wrote his letters ; and Dr. Gaston did not write his. For 
the two men understood each other. There was no need 
for the old chaplain to say, plainly, ' ' I have lived out of 
the world so long that I have not a single clerical friend 
this side of New York upon whom I can call" ; the priest 
comprehended it without words. And there was no need 
for Pere Michaux to parade the close ties and net-work 
of communication which prevailed in the ancient Church 
to which he belonged ; the chaplain knew them without 
the telling. Each understood the other ; and being men, 
they could do without the small teasing comments, like 
the buzzing of flies, with which women enliven their 
days. Thus it happened that Anne Douglas travelled 
from the northern island across to the great city on 
the ocean border in the charge of the Roman Catholic 
Church. 

She arrived in New York worn out and bewildered, and 
having lost her sense of comparison by the strangeness 
and fatigue of the long journey, she did not ap]3reciate 
the city's size, the crowded streets, and roar of traffic, but 
regarded everything vaguely, like a tired child who has 
neither surprise nor attention to give. 

At length the carriage stopped; she went up a broad 
flight of stone steps ; she was entering an open door. 
Some one was speaking to her; she was in a room where 
there were chairs, and she sank down. The priest who 
had brought her from the other side of the river was ex- 
changing a few words with a lady ; he was going ; he was 
gone. The lady was coming toward her. 

"You are very tired, my child," she said. "Let me 
take you a moment to Tante, and then you can go to your 



ANNE. 151 

"To Tante?" said Anne. 

"Yes, to Tante, or Madame Moreau, tlie principal of 
the school. She expects you." 



Chapter IX. 

"Manners — not what, but hoio. Manners are liappy ways of doing 
things; each once a stroke of genius or of love — now repeated and 
hardened into usage. Manners require time ; nothing is more vulgar 
than haste." — Emerson. 

Madame Moreau was a Frenchwoman, small and old, 
with a thin shrewd face and large features. She wore a 
X^lain black satin gown, the narrow skirt gathered in the 
old-fashioned style, and falling straight to the floor ; the 
waist of the gown, fastened behind, was in front plait- 
ed into a long rounded point. Broad ruffles of fine lace 
shielded her throat and hands, and her cap, garnished 
with violet velvet, was trimmed with the same delicate 
fabric. She was never a handsome woman even in youth, 
and she was now seventy-five years of age ; yet she was 
charming. 

She rose, kissed the young girl lightly on each cheek, 
and said a few words of welcome. Her manner was af- 
fectionate, but impersonal. She never took fancies ; but 
neither did she take dislikes. That her young ladies were 
all charming young persons was an axiom never allowed 
to be brought into question ; that they were simply and 
gracefully feminine was with equal firmness established. 
Other schools of modern and American origin might 
make a feature of public examinations, with questions by 
bearded professors from boys' colleges ; but the establish- 
ment of Madame Moreau knew nothing of such innova- 
tions. The Frenchwoman's idea was not a bad one ; good 
or bad, it was inflexible. She was a woman of marked 
character, and may be said to have accomplished much 
good in a mannerless generation and land. Thorough- 
ly French, she was respected and loved by all her Amer- 



152 ANNE. 

ican scholars ; and it will be long ere her name and mem« 
ory fade away. 

Miss Vanhorn did not come to see her niece until a 
week had x^assed. Anne had been assigned to the lowest 
French class among the children, had taken her first 
singing lesson from one Italian, fat, rosy, and smiling, 
and her first Italian lesson from another, lean, old, and 
soiled, had learned to answer questions in the Moreau 
French, and to talk a little, as well as to comprehend 
the fact that her clothes were remarkable, and that she 
herself was considered an oddity, when one morning 
Tante sent word that she w^as to come down to the draw- 
ing-room to see a visitor. 

The visitor was an old woman with black eyes, a black 
wig, shining false teeth, a Roman nose, and a high color 
(which was, however, natural), and she was talking to 
Tante, who, with her own soft gray hair, and teeth which 
if false did not appear so, looked charmingly real beside 
her. Miss Vanhorn was short and stout ; she w^as muf- 
fled in an India shawl, and upon her hands were a pair of 
cream-colored kid gloves much too large for her, so that 
when she fumbled, as she did every few moments, in an 
embroidered bag for aromatic seeds coated with sugar, 
she had much difficulty in finding them, owing to the 
empty wrinkled ends of the glove fingers. She lifted a 
gold-rimmed eye-glass to her eyes as Anne entered, and 
coolly inspected her. 

"Dear me! dear me!" she said. Then, in execrable 
French, "What can be done with such a young savage 
as this ?" 

"How do you do, aunt?" said Anne, using the con- 
ventional words with a slight tremor in her voice. This 
was the woman who had brought up her mother — her 
dear, un remembered mother. 

' ' Grandaunt, " said Miss Vanhorn, tartly. ' ' Sit down ; 
I can not bear to have people standing in front of me. 
How old are you ?" 

"I am seventeen, grandaunt." 

Miss Vanhorn let her eyeglass drop, and groaned. 
' ' Can anything be done with her ?" she asked, closing 




•'DEAR ME, WHAT CAN BE DONE WITH SUCH A YOUNG SAVAGE?" 



ANNE. 153 

her eyes tightly, and turning toward Tante, while Anne 
flushed crimson, not so much from the criticism as the 
unkindness. 

" Oh yes," said Tante, taking the opportunity given by 
the closed eyes to pat the young girl's hand encouraging- 
ly. ' ' Miss Douglas is very intelligent ; and she has a fine 
mezzo-soprano voice. Signor Belzini is much pleased 
with it. It would be well, also, I think, if you would al- 
low her to take a few dancing lessons." 

' ' She will have no occasion for dancing, " answered 
Miss Vanhorn, still with her eyes closed. 

"It was not so much for the dancing itself as for 
grace of carriage," replied Tante. "Miss Douglas has a 
tj'pe of figure rare among American girls." 

"I should say so, indeed 1" groaned the other, shaking 
her head gloomily, still voluntarily blinded. 

"But none the less beautiful in its way," continued 
Tante, unmoved. " It is the Greek type." 

"I am not acquainted with any Greeks, " replied Miss 
Vanhorn. 

' ' You are still as devoted as ever to the beautiful and 
refined study of plant life, dear madame," pursued Tante, 
changing the current of conversation. "How delight- 
ful to have a young relative to assist you, with the fresh 
and ardent interest belonging to her age, when the flowers 
bloom again upon the rural slopes of Haarderwyck !" As 
Tante said this, she looked off dreamily into space, as if 
she saw aunt and niece wandering together through 
groves of allegorical flowers. 

' ' She is not likely to see Haarderwyck, " answered Miss 
Vanhorn. Then, after a moment's pause — a pause w^hich 
Tante did not break — she peered at Anne with half-open 
eyes, and asked, abruptly, "Do you, then, know anything 
of botany ?" 

Tante made a slight motion with her delicate withered 
old hand. But Anne did not comprehend her, and an- 
swered, honestly, "No, grandaunt, I do not." 

"Bah!" said Miss Vanhorn; "I might have known 
without the asking. Make what you can of her, ma- 
dame. I will pay your bill for one year: no longer. 



154 ANNE. 

But no nonsense, no extras, mind that." Again slie 
sought a caraway seed, pursuing it vindictively along 
the bottom of her bag, and losing it at the last, after all. 

"As regards wardrobe, I would advise some few 
changes, '' said Tante, smoothly. " It is one of my axioms 
that pupils study to greater advantage when their 
thoughts are not disturbed by deficiencies in dress. Con- 
formity to our simple standard is therefore desirable." 

" It may be desirable ; it is not always, on that account, 
attainable," answered Miss Vanhorn, conveying a final- 
ly caught seed to her mouth, dropping it at the last mo- 
ment, and carefully and firmly biting the seam of the 
glove finger in its place. 

"Purchases are made for the pupils with discretion 
by one of our most experienced teachers," continued 
Tante. 

"Glad to hear it," said her visitor, releasing the glove 
finger, and pretending to chew the seed which was not 
there. 

"But I do not need anything, Tante," interposed 
Anne, the deep color deepening in her cheeks. 

"So much the better," said her grandaunt, dryly, 
" since you will have nothing," 

She went away soon afterward somewhat placated, 
owing to skillful reminiscences of a favorite cousin, who, 
it seemed, had been one of Tante's "dearest pupils" in 
times past; "a true Vanhorn, worthy of her Knicker- 
bocker blood." The word "Neeker-bo-ker," delicately 
comprehended, applied, and, what was more important 
still, limited, was one of Tante's most telling achieve- 
ments — a shibboleth. She knew all the old Dutch names, 
and remembered their intermarriages ; she was acquainted 
with the peculiar flavor of Huguenot descent ; .she compre- 
hended the especial aristocracy of Tory families, whose 
original property had been confiscated by a raw republic 
under George Washington. Ah ! skillful old Tante, 
what a general you would have made ! 

Anne Douglas, the new pupil, was now left to face the 
school with her island-made gowns, and what courage 
she could muster. Fortunately the gowns were black 



ANNE. 155 

and severely plain. Tante, not at all disturbed by Miss 
Vanhorn's refusal, ordered a simple cloak and bonnet for 
her through an inexpensive French channel, so that in 
the street she passed unremarked ; but, in the house, ev- 
ery-day life required more courage than scaling a wall. 
Grirls are not brutal, like boys, but their light wit is pit- 
iless. The Southern pupils, provided generously with 
money in the lavish old-time Southern way, the day 
scholars, dressed with the exquisite simplicity of North- 
ern school-girls of good family, glanced with amusement 
at the attire of this girl from the Northwest. This girl, be- 
ing 3"oung, felt their glances; as a refuge, she threw her- 
self into her studies with double energy, and gaining 
confidence respecting what she had been afraid was her 
island patois, she advanced so rapidly in the French class- 
es that she passed from the lowest to the highest, and was 
publicly congratulated by Tante herself. In Italian her 
progress was more slow. Her companion, in the class of 
two, was a beautiful dark-eyed Southern girl, who read 
musically, but seldom deigned to open her grammar. 
The forlorn, soiled old exile to whom, with unconscious 
irony, the bath-room had been assigned for recitations 
in the crowded house, regarded this pupil with mixed ad- 
miration and despair. Her remarks on Mary Stuart, rep- 
resented by Alfieri, were nicely calculated to rouse him 
to patriotic fury, and then, when the old man burst forth 
in a torrent of excited words, she would raise her soft 
eyes in surprise, and inquire if he was ill. The two girls 
sat on the bath-tub, which was decorously covered over 
and cushioned ; the exile had a chair for dignity's sake. 
Above, in a corresponding room, a screen was drawn 
round the tub, and a piano placed against it. Here, all 
day long, another exile, a German music-master, with lit- 
tle gold rings in his ears, gave piano lessons, and Anne 
was one of his x^upils. To Signor Belzini, the teacher of 
vocal music, tlie drawing-room itself was assigned. He 
was a prosperous and smiling Italian, who had a habit 
of bringing pieces of pink cream candy with him, and ar- 
ranging them in a row on the piano for his own refresh- 
ment after each song. There was an atmosphere of per- 



156 ANNE. 

fume and mystery about Belzini. It was whispered that 
he knew the leadhig opera-singers, even taking supper 
with tliem sometimes after the opera. The pupils ex- 
hausted their imaginations in picturing to each other the 
probable poetry and romance of these occasions. 

Belzini was a musical trick-master; but he was not ig- 
norant. When Anne came to take her first lesson, he 
smiled effusively, as usual, took a piece of candy, and, 
while enjoying it, asked if she could read notes, and gave 
her the "Drinking Song" from Lucrezia Borgia as a 
trial. Anne sang it correctly without accompaniment, 
but slowly and solemnly as a dead march. It is probable 
that "II Segreto" never heard itself so sung before or 
since. Belzini was walking up and down with his plump 
hands behind him. 

"You have never heard it sung ?" he said. 

"No," replied Anne. 

"Sing something else, then. Something you like 
yourself." 

After a moment's hesitation, Anne sang an island ballad 
in the voyageur patois. 

" May I ask who has taught you, mademoiselle ?" 

" My father, " said the pupil, with a slight tremor in 
her voice. 

"He must be a cultivated musician, although of the 
German school," said Belzini, seating himself at the piano 
and running his white fingers over the keys. "Try 
these scales." 

It was soon understood that "the islander" could sing 
as well as study. Tolerance was therefore accorded to 
her. But not much more. It is only in "books for the 
young" that poorly clad girls are found leading whole 
schools by the mere power of intellectual or moral suprem- 
acy. The emotional type of boarding-school, also, is sel- 
dom seen in cities ; its home is amid the dead lethargy of 
a winter-bound country village. 

The great event in the opening of Anne's school life was 
her first opera. Tante, not at all blinded by the country 
garb and silence of the new pupil, had written her name 
with her own hand upon the opera list for the winter. 



ANNE. 157 

without consulting Miss Vanliorn, who would, hoAvever, 
pay for it in the end, as she would also pay for the 
drawing and dancing lessons ordered by the same auto- 
cratic command. For it was one of Tante's rules to cul- 
tivate every talent of the agreeable and decorative order 
which her pupils i:)ossessed; she bathed them as the i^ho- 
tographer bathes his shadowy plate, bringing out and 
"setting," as it were, as deeply as possible, their colors, 
whatever they happened to be. Tante always attended 
the opera in person. Preceded by the usher, the old 
Frenchwoman glided down the awkward central aisle of 
the Academy of Music, with her inimitable step, clad in 
her narrow satin gown and all her laces, well aware 
that tongues in every direction w^ere saying : ' ' There is 
Madame Moreau at the head of her school, as usual. 
What a wonderful old lady she is !" While the pupils 
were filing into their i^laces, Tante remained in the aisle 
fanning herself majestically, and surveying them with a 
benignant smile. When all were seated, with a grace- 
ful little bend she glided into her place at the end, the 
motion of sitting down and the bend fused into one in a 
manner known only to herself. 

Anne's strong idealism, shown in her vivid although 
mistaken conceptions of Shakspeare's women, was now 
turned into the channel of opera music. After hearing 
several operas, she threw herself into her Italian songs 
with so much fervor that Belzini sat aghast; this was 
not the manner in which demoiselles of private life should 
sing. Tante, passing one day (by the merest chance, of 
course) through the drawing-room while Anne was sing- 
ing, paused a moment to listen. "Ma iille,"she said, 
when the song w^as ended, tapping Anne's shoulder affa- 
bly, "give no more expression to the Italian words you 
sing than to the syllables of your scales. Interpretations 
are not required." The old Frenchwoman always put 
down with iron hand what she called the predominant 
tendency toward too great freedom — sensationalism — in 
young girls. She spent her life in a constant struggle 
with the American "jeune fille." 

During this time East wrote regularly ; but his letters, 
/ 



158 ANNE. 

not being autliorized by Miss Vanhorn, Anne's guardian, 
passed first through the hands of one of the teachers, and 
the knoY/Icdge of this inspection naturally dulled the 
youth's pen. But Anne's letters to him passed the same 
ordeal \7 ithout change in word or in spirit. Miss Lois and 
Dr. Gaston wrote once a week ; Pere Michaux contented 
himself with postscripts added to the long, badly spelled, 
but elaborately worded epistles with which Mademoiselle 
Tita favored her elder sister. It was evident to Anne 
that Miss Lois was having a severe winter. 

The second event in Anne's school life was the gaining 
of a friend. 

At first it was but a musical companion. Helen Lor- 
rington lived not far from the school; she was one of 
Tante's old scholars, and this Napoleon of teachers espe- 
cially liked this pupil, who was modelled after her own 
heart. Helen held what may be called a woman's most 
untrammelled position in life, namely, that of a young 
widow, protected but not controlled, rich, beautiful, and 
without children. She was also heir to the estate of an 
eccentric grandfather, who detested her, yet would not al- 
low his money to go to any collateral branch. He de- 
tested her because her father was a Spaniard, whose dark 
eyes had so reprehensibly fascinated his little Dutch 
daughter that she had unexpectedly plucked up courage 
to marry in spite of the paternal j)rohibition, and not 
ouly that, but to be very liappy also during the short por- 
tion of life allotted to her afterward. The youug Spanish 
husband, with an unaccountable indifference to the wealth 
for which he was supposed to have plotted so persevering- 
ly, was pusillanimous enough to die soon afterward, leav- 
ing only one little pale-faced child, a puny girl, to inherit 
the money. The baby Helen had never possessed the 
dimples and rose tints that make the beauty of childhood; 
the girl Helen had not the rounded curves and peach-like 
bloom that make the beauty of youth. At seventeen she 
was what she was now; therefore at seventeen she was 
old. At twenty-seven she was what she was then ; there- 
fore at twenty-seven she was young. 

She was tall, and extremely, marvellously slender; yet 



ANNE. 159 

her bones were so small that there Avere no angles visible 
in all her gi'acef ul leng-th. She was a long woman ; her 
arms w^ere long, her throat was long, her eyes and face 
were long. Her form, slight enough for a spirit, was as 
natural as the swaying grasses on a hill-side. She was as 
flexible as a ribbon. Her beauties were a regally poised lit- 
tle head, a delicately cut profile, and a remarkable length 
of hair ; her peculiarities, the color of this hair, the color 
of her skin, and the narrowness of her eyes. The hue of 
her hair was called flaxen ; but it was more than that — 
it was the color of bleached straw. There was not a 
trace of gold in it, nor did it ever shine, but hung, when 
unlx>und, a soft even mass straight down below the knee. 
It was very thick, but so fine that it was manageable ; it 
w^as never rough, because there were no short locks. The 
complexion which accompanied this hair was white, with 
an under-tint of ivory. There are skins with under-tints 
of pink, of blue, and of brown ; but this was different in 
that it shaded off into cream, without any indication of 
these hues. This soft ivory-color gave a shade of fuller 
richness to the slender straw-haired woman — an effect in- 
creased by the hue of the eyes, when visible under the long 
light lashes. For Helen's eyes were of a bright dark un- 
expected brown. The eyes were so long and narrow, 
however, that generally only a line of bright brawn look- 
ed at you when you met their gaze. Small features, 
narrow cheeks, delicate lips, and little milk-white teeth, 
like a child's, completed this face which never had a red 
tint, even the lips being but faintly colored. There were 
many men who, seeing Helen Lorrington for the first 
time, thought her exquisitely beautiful ; there were others 
who, seeing her for the first time, thought her singular- 
ly ugly. The second time, thei*e was never a question. 
Ksr grandfather called her an albino ; but he was nearly 
blind, and could only see the color of her hair. He could 
not see the strong brown light of her eyes, or the soft 
ivory complexion, which never changed in the wind, the 
heat, or the cold. 

Mrs. Lorrington was always dressed richly, but after a 
fashion of her own. Instead of disguising the slender- 



160 ANNE. 

ness of her form, she intensified it ; instead of contrasting 
hues, she often wore amber tints like her hair. Amid all 
her silks, jewels, and laces, there was always supreme her 
own personality, which reduced her costumes to what, 
after all, costumes should he, merely the subordinate cov- 
erings of a beautiful woman. 

Helen had a clear, flute-like voice, with few low notes, 
and a remarkably high range. She continued her lessons 
with Belzini whenever she was in the city, more in order 
that he might transpose her songs for her than for any 
instruction he could now bestow. She was an old pupil 
of his, and the sentimental Italian adored her ; this ador- 
ation, however, did not prevent him from being very 
comfortable at home with his portly wife. One morning 
Helen, coming in for a moment to leave a new song, 
found Anne at the piano taking her lesson. Belzini, al- 
ways anxious to please his fair-haired divinity, motioned 
^to her to stay and listen. Anne's rich voice pleased her 
ears ; but she had heard rich voices before. What held 
her attention now was the girl herself. For although. 
Helen was a marvel of self-belief, although she made her 
own peculiar beauty an object of worship, and was so sat- 
urated with knowledge of herself that she could not take 
an attitude which did not become lier, she yet possessed 
a comprehension of other types of beauty, and had, if not 
an admii^ation for, at least a curiosity about, them. In 
x\nne she recognized at once what Tante had also recog- 
nized — unfolding beauty of an unfamiliar type, the curves 
of a nobly shaped form hidden under an ugly gown, above 
the round white throat a beautiful head, and a singular- 
ly young face shadowed by a thoughtfulness which was 
very grave and impersonal when compared with the 
usual light, self-centred expressions of young girls' faces. 
At once Helen's artistic eye had Anne before her, robed 
in fit attire ; in imagination she dressed her slowly from 
head to foot as the song went on, and was considering 
the question of jewels when the music ceased, and Belzini 
was turning toward her. 

'' I hope I may become better acquainted with this rich 
voice," she said, coming back gracefully to the present. 



ANNE. 151 

" May I introduce myself? I should like to try a duet 
with you, if you will allow me, Miss — " 

"Douglas,-' said Belzini; "and this, mademoiselle, is 
Mrs. Lorrington. " 

Such was the beginning. 

In addition to Helen's fancy for Anne's fair gi^ve face, 
the young girl's voice proved a firmer support for her 
high soprano than it had ever obtained. Her own circle 
in society and the music classes had been searched in 
vain more than once. For she needed a soprano, not 
a contralto. And as soprani are particularly human, 
there had never been any lasting co-operation. Anne, 
however, cheerfully sang whatever Belzini put before 
her, remained admiringly silent while Helen executed 
the rapid runs and trills with which she always decora- 
ted her part, and then, when the mezzo was needed again, 
gave her full voice willingly, supporting the other as 
the notes of an organ meet and support a flute after its 
solo. 

Belzini was in ecstasies; he sat up all night to copy 
music for them. He said, anxiously, to Helen: "And 
the young girl ? You like her, do you not ? Such a 
voice for you !" 

"But I can not exactly buy young girls, can I ?" said 
Mrs. Lorrington, smiling. 

More and more, however, each day she liked "the 
young girl" for herself alone. She was an original, of 
course ; almost an aboriginal ; for she told the truth ex- 
actly upon all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate, and 
she had convictions. She was not aware, apparently, of 
the old-fashioned and cumbrous appearance of these last- 
named articles of mental furniture. But the real secret 
of Helen's liking lay in the fact that Anne admired her, 
and was at the same time neither envious nor jealous, 
and from her youth she had been troubled by the sure 
development of these two feelings, sooner or later, in all 
her girl companions. In truth, Helen's lot teas enviable ; 
and also, whether consciously or unconsciously, she had 
a skill in provoking jealousy. She was the spoiled child 
of fortune. It was no wonder, therefore, that those of 

11 



162 ANNE. 

her own sex and age seldom enjoyed being" with her: 
the contrast was too great. Helen was, besides, the very 
queen of Whim. 

The queen of Whim ! By nature ; which means that she 
had a highly developed imagination. By the life she had 
led, having never, save for the six short months of her hus- 
band's adoring rule, been under the control, or even advice, 
of any man. For whim can be thoroughly developed only 
in feminine households : it is essentially feminine. And 
Helen had been brought up by a maiden aunt, who lived 
alone. A man, however mild, demands in a home at least 
a pretense of fixed hours and regularity ; only a house- 
hold of women is capable of no regularity at all, of chan- 
ging the serious dinner hour capriciously, and even giving 
np dinner altogether. Only a household of women has 
sudden inspirations as to journeys and departures within 
the hour ; brings forth sudden ideas as to changes of route 
while actually on the way, and a going southward in- 
stead of westward, with a total indifference to supper. 
Helen's present whim was Anne. 

" I want you to spend part of the holidays with me," 
she said, a few days before Christmas. ' ' Come on Mon- 
day, and stay oyer New-Year's Day." 

"Oh, I can not," said Anne, startled. 

' ' Why not ? Tante w411 consent if I ask her ; she al- 
ways does. Do you love this crowded house so much that 
you can not leave it ?" 

" It is not that. But—" 

' ' But you are shy. But Miss Vanhorn might not like 
it. You do not know Aunt Margaretta. You have no 
silk gown. Now let me talk. I will write to Miss Van- 
horn. Aunt Margaretta is as gentle as a dove. I am 
bold enough for two. And the silk dress shall come from 
me." 

"I could not take that, Mrs. Lorrington." 

"Because you are proud ?" 

"No; but because I would rather not. It would be 
too great an obligation." 

' ' You repay me by your voice a thousandfold, Anne. 
I have never had the right voice for mine until now; 



ANNE. 163 

and therefore the obligation is on my side. I do not 
speak of the pleasure your visit will give me, because I 
hope to make that mutual. But say no more. I intend 
to have my way." 

And she had her w^ay. "I have always detested Miss 
Vanhorn, with her caraway seeds, and her malice," she 
explained to Tante. ' ' Much as I like Anne for herself 
alone, it will be delicious also to annoy the old dragon by 
bringing into notice this unknown niece whom she is 
hiding here so carefully. Now confess, Tante, that it 
will be delicious." 

Tante shook her head reprovingly. But she herself 
was in her heart by no means fond of Miss Vanhorn; 
she had had more than one battle royal with that ven- 
erable Knickerbocker, which had tested even her cele- 
brated suavity. 

Helen's note was as follows : 

' ' Dear Miss Vanhorn, — I very much wish to persuade 
your charming niece, Miss Douglas, to spend a portion 
of the holidays with me. Her voice is marvellously 
sweet, and Aunt Margaretta is most anxious to hear it ; 
while I am desirous to have her in my own home, even 
if but for a few days, in order that I may learn more of 
her truly admirable qualities, which she inherits, no 
doubt, from your family. 

"I trust you will add your consent to Tante's, already 
willingly bestowed, and make me thereby still more your 
obliged friend, 

"Helen Eoosbroeck Lorrington." 

The obliged friend had the following answer : 

' ' Miss Vanhorn presents her compliments to Mrs. Lor- 
rington, with thanks for her note, which, however, was 
an unnecessary attention, Miss Vanhorn claiming no au- 
thority over the movements of Anne Douglas (whose re- 
lationship to her is remote), beyond a due respect for the 
rules of the institution where she has been i^laced. Miss 
Vanhorn is gratified to learn that Miss Douglas's voice is 



164 ANNE. 

already of practical use to her, and has the honor of re- 
maining Mrs. Lorrington's obliged and humble servant, 
" Madison Square, Tuesday^ 

Tears sprang to Anne's eyes when Helen showed her this 
note. 

' ' Why do you care ? She was always a dragon ; for- 
get her. Now, Anne, remember that it is all understood, 
and the carriage will come for you on Monday." Then, 
seeing the face before her still irresolute, she added: " If 
you are to have pupils, some of them may be like me. 
You ought, therefore, to learn how to manage me, you 
know." 

' ' You are right," said Anne, seriously. " It is strange 
how little confidence I feel." 

Helen, looking at her as she stood there in her island 
gown, coarse shoes, and old-fashioned collar, did not 
think it strange at all, but wondered, as she had wonder- 
ed a hundred times before, why it was that this girl did 
not think of herself and her own appearance. ' ' And you 
must let me have my way, too, about something for you 
to wear," she added. 

"It shall be as you wish, Helen. It can not be oth- 
erwise, I suppose, if I go to you. But — I hoi)e the time 
will come when I can do something for you." 

' ' Never fear ; it will. I feel it instinctively. You will 
either save my life or take it — one or the other ; but I am 
not sure which." 

Monday came ; and after her lonely Christmas, Anne 
was glad to step into Miss Teller's carriage, and be taken 
to the home on the Avenue. The cordial Avelcome she 
received there was delightful to her, the luxury novel. 
She enjoyed everything simply and sincerely, from the 
late breakfast in the small warm breakfast-room, from 
which the raw light of the winter morning was carefully 
excluded, to the chat with Helen over the dressing-room 
fire late at night, when all the house was still. Hel- 
en's aunt, Miss Teller, was a thin, light-eyed person of 
fifty -five years of age. Richly dressed, very tall, with a 
back as immovable and erect as though made of steel, 



ANNE. 165 

and a tower of blonde lace on her head, she was a per- 
sonage of imposing aspect, but in reality as mild as a 
sheep. 

"Yes, my dear," she said, when Anne noticed the tint- 
ed light in the breakfast-room ; " I take great care about 
light, which I consider an influence in our households 
too much neglected. The hideous white glare in most 
American breakfast-rooms on snowy winter mornings has 
often made me shudder when I have been visiting my 
friends ; only the extremely vigorous can enjoy this sharp 
contact with the new day. Then the aesthetic effect: 
children are always homely when the teeth are changing 
and the shoulder-blades prominent ; and who wishes to see, 
besides, each freckle and imperfection upon the counte- 
nances of those he loves ? I have observed, too, that even 
morning prayer, as a family observance, fails to counter- 
act the influence of this painful light. For if as you 
kneel you cover your face with your hands, the glare will 
be doubly unbearable when you remove them; and if 
you do not cover your brow, you will inevitably blink. 
Those who do not close their eyes at all are the most com- 
fortable, but I trust w^e would all prefer to suffer rather 
than be guilty of such irreverence." 

"Now that is Aunt Gretta exactly," said Helen, as 
Miss Teller left the room. "When you are once accus- 
tomed to her height and blonde caps, you will find her 
soft as a down coverlet." 

Here Miss Teller returned. "My dear," she said, anx- 
iously, addressing Anne, " as to soap for the hands— what 
kind do you prefer ?" 

"Anne's hands are beautiful, and she will have the 
white soap in the second box on the first shelf of the store- 
room — the rose; not the heliotrope, which is mine," said 
Helen, taking one of the young girl's hands, and spread- 
ing out the firm taper fingers. ' ' See her wrists ! Now 
my wrists are small too, but then there is nothing but 
wrist all the w^ay up." 

"My dear, your arms have been much admired," said 
Miss Maj'garetta, with a shade of bewilderment in her 



1G6 • ANNE. 

"Yes, because I choose they shall be. But when I 
spoke of Anne's hands, I spoke artistically, aunt." 

"Do you expect Mr. Blum to-day?" said Miss Teller. 

"Oh no," said Helen, smiling. "Mr. Blum, Anne, is 
a poor artist whom Aunt Gretta is cruel enough to dislike. " 

' ' Not on account of his poverty, " said Miss Margaretta, 
"but on account of my having half-brothers, with large 
families, all with weak lungs, taking cold, I may say, at 
a breath — a mere breath; and Mr. Blum insists upon 
coming here without overshoes when there has been a 
thaw, and sitting all the evening in wet boots, which 
naturally makes me think of my brothers' weak families, 
to say nothing of the danger to himself." 

' ' Well, Mr. Blum is not coming. But Mr. Heathcote 
is." 

"Ah." 

"And Mr. Dexter may." 

"I am always glad to see Mr. Dexter," said Aunt Mar- 
garetta. 

Mr. Heathcote did not come ; Mr. Dexter did. But 
Anne was driving with Miss Teller, and missed the 
visit. 

"A remarkable man," said the elder lady, as they sat 
at the dinner table in the soft radiance of wax lights. 

"You mean Mr. Blum?" said Helen. "This straw- 
colored jelly exactly matches me, Anne." 

"I mean Mr. Dexter," said Miss Teller, nodding her 
head impressively. "Sent through college by the boun- 
ty of a relative (who died immediately afterward, in the 
most rei3rehensible way, leaving him absolutely nothing), 
Gregory Dexter, at thirty-eight, is to-day a man of mod- 
ern and distinct importance. Hand ome — you do not 
contradict me there, Helen ?" 

"No, aunt." 

"Handsome," repeated Miss Teller, triumphantly, 
"successful, moral, kind-hearted, and rich — what would 
you have more ? I ask you, Miss Douglas, what would 
you have more ?" 

"Nothing," said Helen. "Anne has confided to mo- 
nothing. Long live Gregory Dexter! And I feel sure^ 



ANNE. 167 

too, that he will outlive us all. I shall go first. You 
will see. I always wanted to be first in everything* — 
even the grave." 

"My dear!" said Miss Margaretta. 

"Well, aunt, now would you like to be last? Think 
how lonely you would be. Besides, all the best places 
would be taken," said Helen, in business-like tones, tak- 
ing a spray of heliotrope from the vase before her. 

New- Year's Day was, in the eyes of Margaretta Teller, 
a solemn festival ; thought was given to it m June, pre- 
paration for it began in September. Many a call was 
made at the house on that day which neither Miss Marga- 
retta, nor her niece, Mrs. Lorrington, attracted, but rather 
the old-time dishes and the old-time puncli on their din- 
ing-room table. Old men with gouty feet, amateur anti- 
quarians of mild but obstinate aspect, to whom Helen was 
"a slip of a girl," and Miss Margaretta still too youthful 
a person to be of much interest, called regularly on the 
old Dutch holiday, and tasted this New- Year's punch. 
They cherished the idea that they were thus maintaining 
the "solid old customs," and they spoke to each other in 
moist, husky under-tones when they met in the hall, as 
much as to say, ' ' Ah, ah ! you here ? That's right — that's 
right. A barrier, sir — a barrier against modern innova- 
tion!" 

Helen had several friends besides Anne to assist her in 
receiving, and the young island girl remained, therefore, 
more or less unnoticed, owing to her lack of the ready, 
graceful smiles and phrases which are the current coin 
of New-Year's Day. She passed rapidly through the dif- 
ferent phases of timidity, bewilderment, and fatigue ; and 
then, when more accustomed to the scene, she regained 
her composure, and even began to feel amused. She 
ceased hiding behind the others; she learned to repeat 
the same answers to the same questions without caring 
for their inanity; she gave up trying to distinguish 
names, and (like the others) massed all callers into a 
constantly arriving repetition of the same person, who 
was to be treated with a cordiality as impersonal as it was 
glittering. She tried to select Mr. Dexter, and at length 



168 ANNE. 

decided tliat he was a certain person standing near Helen 
— a man with brown hair and eyes ; but she was not sure, 
and Helen's manner betrayed nothing. 

The fatiguing day was over at last, and then followed 
an hour or two of comparative quiet; the few familiar 
guests who remained were glad to sink down in easy- 
chairs, and enjoy connected sentences again. The faces 
of the ladies showed fine lines extending from the nostril 
to the chin ; the muscles that had smiled so much were 
weary. 

And now Anne discovered Gregory Dexter ; and he 
was not t^ie person she had selected. Mr. Dexter was a 
tall, broad-shouldered man, with an appearance of per- 
sistent vigor in his bearing, and a look of determination 
in his strong, squarely cut jaw and chin. His face was 
rather short, with good features and clear gray eyes, 
which met the gazer calmly; and there was about him 
that air of self-reliance which does not irritate in a large 
strong man, any more than imperiousness in a beautiful 
woman. 

The person with brown eyes proved to be Mr. Heath- 
cote. He seemed indolent, and contributed but few 
words to the general treasury of conversation. 

Mr. Blum was present also; but on this occasion he 
wore the peculiarly new, shining, patent -leather boots 
dear to the hearts of his countrymen on festal occasions, 
and Miss Teller's anxieties were quiescent. Helen liked 
artists; she said that their ways were a "proud assertion 
that a ray of beauty outvalued all the mere utilities of the 
world." 

"Are bad boots rays of beauty ?" inquired Miss Marga- 
retta. 

' ' Yes. That is, a man whose soul is uplifted by art 
may not always remember his boots ; to himself, no doubt, 
his feet seem winged." 

"Very far from winged are Blum's feet," responded 
Miss Margaretta, shaking her head gravely. "Very, 
very far." 

Late in the evening, when almost all the guests had de- 
parted, Helen seemed seized with a sudden determination 



ANNE. 169 

to bring Anne into prominence. Mr. Dexter still linger- 
ed, and the artist. Also Ward Heatlicote. 

"Anne, will you sing now? First with me, then 
alone ?" she said, going to the piano. 

A bright flush rose in Anne's face ; the prominent blue 
eyes of the G-erman artist were fixed upon her ; Gregory 
Dexter had turned toward her with his usual prompt at- 
tention. Even the indolent Heatlicote looked up as 
Helen spoke. But having once decided to do a thing, 
Anne knew no way save to do it ; having accepted Hel- 
en's generous kindness, she must now do what Helen ask- 
ed in return. She rose in silence, and crossed the bright- 
ly lighted room on her way to the piano. Few women 
walk well ; by well, is meant naturally. Helen was grace- 
ful ; she had the lithe shape and long step which give a 
peculiar swaying grace, like that of elm branches. Yet 
Helen's walk belonged to the drawing-room, or at best 
the city pavement ; one could not imagine her on a coun- 
try road. Anne's gait was different. As she crossed the 
room alone, it drew upon her for the first time the full at- 
tention of the three gentlemen who were present. Blum 
stared gravely. Dexter's eyes moved up to her face, as 
if he saw it now with new interest. Heatlicote leaned 
back on the sofa with an amused expression, glancing 
from Anne to Helen, as if saying, "I understand." 

Anne wore one of Helen's gifts, a soft silk of pale gray, 
in deference to her mourning garb ; the dress was high 
over the shoulders, but cut down squarely in front and 
behind, according to a fashion of the day. The sleeves 
came to the elbow only ; the long skirt was severely plain. 
They had taken off their gloves, and the girl's beautiful 
arms were conspicuous, as well as her round, full, white 
throat. 

The American Venus is thin. 

American girls are slight; they have visible collar- 
bones and elbows. When they pass into the fullness of 
womanhood (if they pass at all), it is suddenly, leaving 
no time for the beautiful pure virginal outlines which 
made Anne Douglas an exception to her kind. Anne's 
walk was entirely natural, her poise natural ; yet so per- 



170 



ANNE. 



feet were her proportions that even Tante, artificial and 
French as she was. refrained from the suggestions and 
directions as to step a,nd bearing wliich encircled the oth- 
er pupils like an atmosphere. 

The young girl's hair had been arranged by Helen's 
maid, under Helen's own direction, in a plain Greek knot, 
leaving the shai^e of the head, and the small ear, exposed ; 
and as .she stood by the piano, waiting, she looked (as Hel- 
en had intended her to look) like some young creature 
from an earlier world, startled and shy, yet too proud 
to run away. 

They sang together ; and in singing Anne recovered her 
self-possession. Then Helen asked her to sing without 
accompaniment a little island ballad which was one of her 
favorites, and leading her to the centre of the room, left 
her there alone. Poor Anne ! But, moved by the one 
desire of pleasing Helen, she clasped her hands in simple 
child-like fashion, and began to sing, her eyes raised 
slightly so a.s tc look above the faces of her audience. 
It was an old-fashioned ballad or chanson, in the patois of 
the voyageurs, with a refrain in a minor key, and it told 
of the vanishing of a certain petite Marie, and the sorrow- 
ing of her mother — a common-place theme long drawn 
out, the constantly recurring refrain, at first monotonous, 
becoming after a while sweet to the ear, like the wash of 
small waves on a smooth beach. But it was the ending 
upon which Helen relied for her effect. Suddenly the 
lament of the long-winded mother ended, the time 
changed, and a verse followed x)icturing the rapture of 
the lovers as they fled away in their sharp-bowed boat, 
wing and wing, over the blue lake. Anne sang this as 
though inspired ; she forgot her audience, and sang as 
she had always sung it on the island for East and the 
children. Her voice floated through the house, she 
shaded her eyes with her hand, and leaned forward, 
gazing, as though she saw the boat across the water, 
and then she smiled, as, with a long soft note, the song 
ended. 

But the instant it was over, her timidity came back 
with double force, and she hastily sought refuge beside 



ANNE. 



171 



Helen, lier voice gone, in her eyes a dangerous nearness 
to tears. 

There was now an outburst of compliments from Blum ; 
but Helen kindly met and parried them. Mr. Dexter 
began a few well-chosen sentences of praise ; but in the 
midst of his fluent adjectives, Anne glanced up so beseech- 
ingly that he caught the mist in her eyes, and instantly 
ceased. Nor was this all ; he opened a discussion with. 
Miss Teller, dragging in Heathcote also (against the lat- 
ter's will), and thus secured for Anne the time to recover 
herself. She felt this quick kindness, and was grateful. 
She decided that she liked him ; and she wondered wheth- 
er Helen liked him also. 

The next morning the fairy-time was over •- she went 
back to school. 



Chapter X. 

" There are three sorts of egoists : those who live themselves and let 
others live ; those who live themselves and don't let others live ; and 
those who neither live themselves nor let others live." 

"With thoughts and feelings very simple but very strong." — Tour- 

GUENIEFF. 

The winter passed. The new pupil studied with dili- 
gence, and insisted upon learning the beginnings of piano- 
playing so thoroughly that the resigned little German 
master with ear-rings woke uj) and began to ask her wheth- 
er she could not go through a course of ten years or so, 
and become ' ' a real blayer, not like American blayers, who 
vant all to learn de same biece, and blay him mit de loud 
pedal down." Sometimes Helen bore her away to spend 
a Sunday ; but there were no more New- Year's Days, or 
occasions for the gray silk. When together at Miss 
Teller's, the two sat over the dressing-room fire at night, 
talking with that delightful mixture of confidence and 
sudden little bits of hypocrisy in which women delight, 
and which undress seems to beget. The bits of hj-pocrisy, 
however, were all Helen's. 

She had long ago gathered from Anne her whole simple 
history ; she was familiar with the Agency, the fort, Miss 



172 ANNE. 

Lois, Pere Micliaux, Dr. Gaston, Rast, Tita, and the boys, 
even old Antoine and his dogs, Eene and Lebeau. Anne, 
glad to have a listener, had poured out a flood of details 
from her lonely homesick heart, going back as far as her 
own lost mother, and her young step-mother Angelique. 
But it was not until one of these later midnight talks 
that the girl had spoken of her own betrothal. Helen 
was much surprised — the only surprise she had shown. 
"I should never have dreamed it, Crystal I" she exclaim- 
ed. "Never!" (Crystal was her name for Anne.) 

"Why not?" 

"Because you are so — young." 

' ' But it often happens at my age. The fort ladies were 
married at eighteen and nineteen, and my own dear 
mother was only twenty." 

"You adore this Rast, I suppose ?" 

"Yes, I like him." 

' ' Nonsense ! You mean that you adore him." 

"Perhaps I do," said Anne, smiling. "I have no- 
ticed that our use of words is different." 

' ' And how long have you adored him ?" 

"All my life." 

The little sentence came forth gravely and sincerely. 
Helen surveyed the speaker with a quizzical expression in 
her narrow brown eyes. ' ' No one ' adores' all one's life, " 
she answered. Then, as Anne did not take up the chal- 
lenge, she paused, and, after surveying her companion in 
silence for a moment, added, ' ' There is no time fixed as 
yet for this marriage ?" 

"No ; Rast has his position to make first. And I my- 
self should be better pleased to have four or five years to 
give to the children before we are married. I am anx- 
ious to educate the boys." 

' ' Bon !" said Helen. ' ' All will yet end well, Virginie. 
My compliments to Paul. It is a pretty island pastoral, 
this little romance of yours; you have my good wishes." 

The island pastoral was simple indeed compared with 
the net-work of fancies and manoeuvres disclosed by Hel- 
en. Her life seemed to be a drama. Her personages 
were masked under fictitious names ; the Poet, the Haunt- 



ANXE. 



173 



ed Man, the Kniglit-errant, the Chanting Tenor, and the 
Bishop, all figured in her recitals, to which Anne listen- 
ed with intense interest*. Helen was a brilliant story-tell- 
er. She could give the salient points of a conversation, 
and these only. She colored everything, of course, ac- 
cording to her own fancy ; but one could forgive her that 
for her skillful avoidance of dull details, whose stupid 
repetition, simply because they are true, is a habit with 
which many good people are afflicted. 

The narrations, of course, were of love and lovers: it 
is always so in the midnight talks of women over the 
dying fire. Even the most secluded country girl will on 
such occasions unroll a list as long as Leporello's, The 
listener may know it is fictitious, and the narrator may 
know that she knows it. But there seems to be a fascina- 
tion in the telling and the hearing all the same. 

Helen amused herself greatly over the deep interest 
Anne took in her stories; to do her justice, they were 
generally true, the conversations only being more dra- 
matic than the reality had been. This was not Helen's 
fault ; she performed her own part brilliantly, and even 
went over, on occasion, and helped on the other side. But 
the American man is not distinguished for conversation- 
al skill. This comes, not from dullness or lack of ap- 
preciation, but rather from overappreciation. Without 
the rock-like slow self-confidence of the Englishman, the 
Frenchman's never-failing wish to please, or the idealiz- 
ing powers of the German, the American, with a quicker 
apprehension, does not appear so well in conversation 
as any one of these compeers. He takes in an idea so 
quickly that elaborate comment seems to him hardly 
worth while ; and thus he only has a word or two where 
an Englishman has several well-intentioned sentences, 
a Frenchman an e]3igram, and a German a whole cloud 
of philosophical quotations and comments. But it is, 
more than all else, the enormous strength which ridicule 
as an influence possesses in America that makes him 
what he is; he shrinks from the slightest appearance of 
"fine talking,'' lest the ever-present harpies of mirth 
should swoop down and feed upon his vitals. 



174 ANNE. 

Helen's friends, therefore, miglit not always have rec- 
ognized themselves in her sparkling narratives, as far as 
their words were concerned ; but it*is only justice to them 
to add that she was never obliged to embellish their ac- 
tions. She related to Anne apart, during their music 
lessons, the latest events in a whisper, while Belzini gave 
two minutes to cream candy and rest ; the stories became 
the fairy tales of the school-girFs quiet life. Through 
all, she found her interest more and more attracted by 
"the Bishop," who seemed, however, to be anything but 
an ecclesiastical personage. 

Miss Vanhorn had been filled with profound astonish- 
ment and annoyance by Helen's note. She knew Helen, 
and she knew Miss Teller : what could they want of Anne ? 
After due delay, she came in her carriage to find out. 

Tante, comprehending her motive, sent Anne up stairs 
to attire herself in the second dress given by Helen — a 
plain black costume, simply but becomingly made, and 
employed the delay in talking to her visitor mellifluously 
on every conceivable subject save the desired one. She 
treated her to a dissertation on intaglii, to an argument 
or two on architecture, and was fervently asking her 
opinion of certain recently exhibited relics said to be 
by Benvenuto Cellini, when the door opened and Anne 
appeared. 

The young girl greeted her grandaunt with the same 
mixture of timidity and hope which she had shown at 
their first interview. But Miss Vanhorn's face stiffened 
into rigidity as she surveyed her. 

"She is impressed at last," thought the old French- 
woman, folding her hands contentedly and leaning back 
in her chair, at rest (temporarily) from her labors. 

But if impressed. Miss Vanhorn had no intention of 
betraying her impression for the amusement of her ancient 
enemy ; she told Anne curtly to put on her bonnet, that 
she had come to take her for a drive. Once safely in the 
carriage, she extracted from her niece, who willingly an- 
swered, every detail of her acquaintance with Helen, and 
the holiday visit, bestowing with her own eyes, mean- 
while, a close scrutiny upon the black dress, with whose 



ANNE. 175 

texture and simplicity even her angry annoyance could 
find no fault. 

"She wants to get something out of you, of course," 
she said, abruptly, when the story was told ; ' ' Helen Lor- 
rington is a thoroughly selfish woman. I know her well. 
She introduced you, I suppose, as Miss Vanhorn's niece ?" 

"Oh no, grandaunt. She has no such thought," 

" Wliat do you know of her thoughts 1 You continue 
to go there ?" 

' ' Sometimes, on Sundays — when she asks me. " 

"Very well. But you are not to go again when com- 
pany is expected ; I positively forbid it. You were not 
brought down from your island to attend evening parties. 
You hear me ?" 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps you are planning for a situation here at 
Moreau's next winter ?" said the old woman, after a pause, 
peering at Anne suspiciously. 

'' I could not fill it, grandaunt; I could only teach in a 
country school." 

"At Newj)ort, or some such place, then ?" 

"I could not get a position of that kind." 

"Mi'S. Lorrington could help you." 

"I have not asked her to help me." 

"I thought perhaps she had some such idea of her 
own," continued Miss Vanhorn. "You can probably 
prop up that fife-like voice of hers in a way she likes ; 
and besides, you are a good foil for her, with your big 
shouldei'S and bread-and-milk face. You little simpleton , 
don't you know that to even the most skillful flirt a wo- 
man friend of some kind or other is necessary as back- 
ground and support ?" 

" No, I did not know it," said Anne, in a disheartened 
voice. 

"What a friend for Helen Lorrington! No wonder 
she has pounced upon you ! You would never see one 
of her manoeuvres, although done within an inch of you. 
With your believing eyes, and your sincerity, you are 
worth your weight in silver to that straw-faced mermaid. 
But, after all, I do not interfere. Let her only obtain a 



176 ANNE. 

good situation for you next year, and pay you back in 
more useful coin than fine dresses, and I make no objec- 
tion." 

She settled herself anew in the corner of the carriage, 
and began the process of extracting a seed, while Anne, 
silent and dejected, gazed into the snow-covered street, 
asking herself whether Helen and all this world were 
really as selfish and hypocritical as her grandaunt rep- 
resented. But these thoughts soon gave way to the pre- 
dominant one, the one that always came to her when 
with Miss Vanhorn — the thought of her mother. 

"During the summer, do you still live in the old coun- 
try house on the Hudson, grandaunt ?" 

Miss Vanhorn, who had just secured a seed, dropped it. 
* ' I am not aware that my old country house is anything 
to you," she answered, tartly, fitting on her flapping glove- 
fmgers, and beginning a second search. 

A sob rose in Anne's throat; but she quelled it. Her 
mother had spent all her life, up to the time of her mar- 
riage, at that old river homestead. 

Soon after this, Madame Moreau sent out cards of invi- 
tation for one of her musical evenings. Miss Vanhorn's 
card was accompanied by a little note in Xante's own 
handwriting, 

*'The invitation is merely a compliment which I give 
myself the pleasure of paying to a distinguished patron 
of my school" (wrote the old French lady) . ' ' There will 
be nothing worthy of her ear — a simple school-girls' con- 
cert, in which Miss Douglas (who will have the kind as- 
sistance of Mrs. Lorrington) will take x)art. I can not 
urge, for so unimportant an affair, the personal presence 
of Miss Vanhorn ; but I beg her to accept the inclosed card 
as a respectful remembrance from 

" Hortense-Pauline Moreau." 

"That will bring her," thought Tante, sealing the mis- 
sive, in her old-fashioned we.y, with wax. 
She was right ; Miss Vanhorn came. 
Anne sang first alone. Then with Helen. 



ANNE. 177 

''Isn't that Mrs. Lorrington ?" said a voice behind 
Miss Vanhorn. 

' ' Yes. My Louise tells me that she has taken up this 
Miss Douglas enthusiastically — comes here to sing with 
her almost every day." 

" Who is the girl ?" 

Miss Vanhorn prepared an especially rigid expression 
of countenance for the item of relationship which she 
supposed would follow. But nothing came ; Helen was 
evidently waiting for a more dramatic occasion. She 
felt herself respited; yet doubly angry and apprehen- 
sive. 

When the song was ended, there was much applause 
of the subdued drawing-room kind — apiDlause, however, 
plainly intended for Helen alone. Singularly enough. 
Miss Vanhorn resented this. " If I should take Anne, 
dress her properly, and introduce her as my niece, the 
Lorrington vrould be nowhere," she thought, angrily. 
It was the first germ of the idea. 

It was not allowed to disappear. It grew and gather- 
ed strength slowly, as Tante and Helen intended it should ; 
the two friendly conspirators never relaxed for a day their 
efPorts concerning it. Anne remained unconscious of 
these manoeuvres; but the old grandaunt was annoyed, 
and urged, and flattered, and menaced forward with so 
much skill tliat it ended in her proposing to Anne, one 
day in the early spring, that she should come and spend 
the summer with her, the children on the island to be 
provided for meanwhile by an allowance, and Anne her- 
self to have a second winter at the Moreau school, if she 
wished it, so that she might be fitted for a higher posi- 
tion than otherwise she could have hoped to attain. 

" Oh, grandaunt!" cried the girl, taking the old loose- 
ly gloved hand in hers. 

' ' There is no occasion for shaking hands and grand- 
aunting in that way," said Miss Vanhorn. ' ' If you wish 
to do v\^hat I propose, do it ; I am not actuated by any 
new affection for you. You will take four days to con- 
sider ; at tlie end of that period, you may send me your 
answer. But, with your acceptance, I shall require the 

12 



178 •- ANNE. 

strictest obedience. And — no allusion whatever to your 
mother." 

"What are to be my duties ?" asked Anne, in a low 
voice. 

"Whatever I require," answered the old woman, 
grimly. 

At first Anne thought of consulting" Tante. But she 
had a strong under-current of loyalty in her nature, and 
the tie of blood bound her to her grandaunt, after all : she 
decided to consult no one but herself. The third day 
was Sunday. In the twilight she sat alone on her nar- 
row bed, by the window of the dormitory, thinking. It 
was a boisterous March evening; the wildest month of 
the twelve was on his mad errands as usual. Her thoughts 
were on the island with the children ; would it not be 
best for them that she should accept the offered allow- 
ance, and go with this strange grandaunt of hers, endur- 
ing as best she might her cold severity ? Miss Lois's 
income was small ; the allowance would make the little 
household comfortable. A second winter in New York 
would enable her to take a higher place as teacher, and 
also give the self-confidence she lacked. Yes; it was 
best. 

But a great and overwhelming loneliness rose in her 
heart at the thought of another long year's delay before 
she could be with those she loved. East's last letter was 
in her pocket ; she took it out, and held it in her hand for 
comfort. In it he had written of the sure success of his 
future; and Anne believed it as fully as he did. Her 
hand grew warmer as she held the sheet, and as she re- 
called his sanguine words. She began to feel courageous 
again. Then another thought came to her : must she tell 
Miss Vanhorn of her engagement ? In their new condi- 
tions, would it not be dishonest to keep the truth back ? 
"I do not see that it can be of any interest to her," she 
said to herself. "Still, I prefer to tell her." And then, 
having made her decision, she went to Tante. 

Tante was charmed with the news (and with the suc- 
cess of her plan). She discoursed upon family affection 
in very beautiful language. " You will find a true well- 



ANNE. 179 

spring of love in the heart of your venerable relative," 
she remarked, raising her delicate handkerchief, like the 
suggestion of a happiness that reached even to tears. 
' ' Long, long have I held your cherished grandaunt in a 
warm corner of my memory and heart." 

This was true as regarded the time and warmth ; only 
the latter was of a somewhat peppery nature. 

The next morning Helen was told the news. She 
threw back her head in comic despair. ' ' The old dragon 
has taken the game out of my hands at last," she said, 
' ' and ended all the sport. Excuse the title, Anne. But 
I am morally certain she has all sorts of vinegarish names 
for me. And now — am I to congratulate you upon your 
new home ?" 

"It is more a matter of duty, I think, than congratu- 
lation, " said Anne, thoughtfully. ' ' And next, I must tell 
her of my engagement." 

"I wouldn't, if I were you. Crystal." 

"Why?" 

" She would rather have you free." 

"I shall be free, as far as she is concerned." 

' ' Do not be too sure of that. And take my advice — do 
not tell her." 

Anne, however, paid no heed to this admonition ; some 
things she did simply because she could not help doing 
them. She had intended to make her little confession 
immediately ; but Miss Vanhorn gave her no opportunity. 
"That is enough talking," she said. "I have neuralgia 
in my eyebrow." 

"But, grandaunt, I feel that I ought to tell you." 

' ' Tell me nothing. Don't you know how to be silent ? 
Set about learning, then. When I have neuralgia in 
my eyebrow, you are to speak only from necessity ; when 
I have it in the eye itself, you are not to speak at all. 
Find me a caraway, and don't bungle." 

She handed her velvet bag to Anne, and refitted the 
fingers of her yellow glove: evidently the young girl's 
duties were beginning. 

Several days passed, but the neuralgia always pre- 
vented the story. At last the eyebrow was released, and 



180 - ANNE. 

then Anne spoke. "I wish to tell you, grandaunt, be- 
fore I come to you, that I am engaged — engaged to be 
married." 

"Who cares ?" said Miss Vanhorn. "To the man in 
the moon, I suppose; most school-girls are." 

"No, to— " 

"Draw up my shawl," interrupted the old woman. 
" J do not care who it is. Why do you keep on telling 
me ?" 

"Because I did not wish to deceive you." 

* ' Wait till I ask you not to deceive me. Who is the 
boy ?" 

"His name is Erastus Pronando," began Anne; 
"and—" 

"Pronando?" cried Katharine Vanhorn, in a loud, 
bewildered voice — " Pronando ? And his father's name ?" 

"John, I believe," said Anne, startled by the change 
in the old face. "But he has been dead many years." 

Old Katharine rose ; her hands trembled, her eyes flash- 
ed. ■ ' You will give up this boy at once and forever, " she 
said, violently, "or my compact with you is at an end." 

" How can I, grandaunt ? I have promised—" 

' ' I believe I am mistress of my own actions ; and in 
this afi'air I will have no sort of hesitation," continued 
the old woman, taking the words from Anne, and tap- 
ping a chair back angrily with her hand. ' ' Decide now 
— this moment. Break this engagement, and my agree- 
ment remains. Refuse to break it, and it falls. That is 
all." 

"You are unjust and cruel," said the girl, roused by 
these arbitrary words. 

Miss Vanhorn waved her hand for silence. 

"If you will let me tell you, aunt — " 

The old woman bounded forward suddenly, as if on 
springs, seized her niece by both shoulders, and shook her 
with all her strength. "There!" she said, breathless. 
" Will you stop talking ! All I want is your answer — 
yes, or no." 

The drawing-room of Madame Moreau had certainly 
never witnessed such a sight as this. One of its young 



ANNE. 181 

ladies shaken — yes, absolutely shaken like a refractory 
child ! The very chairs and tables seemed to tremble, and 
visibly hope that there was no one in the salon des eleves, 
behind. 

Anne was more startled than hurt by her grandaunt's 
violence. ' ' I am sorry to displease you, " she said, slowly 
and very gravely ; ' ' but I can not break my engagement. " 

Without a word, Miss Vanliorn di'ew her shawl round 
her shoulders, i)inned it, crossed the room, opened the 
door, and was gone. A moment later her carriage roll- 
ed away, and Anne, alone in the drawing-room, listened 
to the sound of the wheels growing fainter and fainter, 
with a chilly mixture of blank surprise, disappointment, 
and grief filling her heart. "But it teas right that I 
should tell her," she said to herself as she went u]) stairs 
— "it teas right." 

Right and wrong always presented themselves to her 
as black and white. She knew no shading. She was 
wrong ; there are grays. But, so far in her life, she had 
not been taught by sad experience to see them. ' ' It icas 
right," she repeated to Helen, a little miserably, but still 
steadfastly. 

"I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Lorrington. 
' ' You have lost a year's fixed income for those children, 
and a second winter here for yourself ; and for what ? 
For the sake of telling the dragon something which does 
not concern her, and which she did not wish to know." 

"But it was true." 

' ' Are we to go out with trumpets and tell everything 
we know, just because it is true ? Is there not such a 
thing as egotistical truthfulness ?" 

"It makes no difference," said Anne, despairingly. 
"I had to tell her." 

"You are stubborn. Crystal, and you see but one side 
of a question. But never fear ; we will circumvent the 
dragon yet. I wonder, though, why she was so wrought 
up by the name Pronando ? Perhaps Aunt Gretta will 
know." 

Miss Teller did not know ; but one of the husky- voiced 
old gentlemen who kept up the "barrier, sir, against 



182 ANNE. 

modern innovation," remembered the particulars (musty 
and dusty now) of Kate Vanhorn's engagement to one of 
the Pronandos — the wild one who ran away. He was 
younger than she was, a handsome fellow (yes, yes, he 
remembered it all now), and "she was terribly cut up 
about it, and went abroad immediately. " Abroad — great 
panacea for American woes! To what continent can 
those who live "abroad" depart when trouble seizes them 
in its pitiless claws ? 

Time is not so all-erasing as we think. Old Katharine 
Vanhorn, at seventy, heard from the young lijDS of her 
grandniece the name which had not been mentioned in 
her presence for nearly half a century — the name which 
still had pov/er to rouse in her heart the old bitter feeling. 
For John Pronando had turned from her to an unedu- 
cated common girl — a market-gardener's daughter. The 
proud Kate Vanhorn resented the defection instantly ; she 
broke the bond of her betrothal, and sailed for England 
before Pronando realized that she was offended. This 
idyl of the gardener's daughter was but one of his passing 
amusements; and so he wrote to his black-browed god- 
dess. But she replied that if he sought amusement of 
that kind during the short period of betrothal, he would 
seek it doubly after marriage, and then it would not be 
so easy to sail for Europe. She considered that she had 
had an escape. Pronando, handsome, light-hearted, and 
careless, gave up his offended Juno without much heart- 
ache, and the episode of Phyllis being by this time fin- 
ished, he strayed back to his Philadelphia home, to em- 
broil himself as usual with his family, and, later, to fol- 
low out the course ordained for him by fate. Kate Van- 
horn had other suitors ; but the old wound never healed. 

" Come and spend the summer with me," said Helen. 
"I trust I am as agreeable as the dragon." 

' ' No ; I must stay here. Even as it is, she is doing a 
great deal for me; I have no real claim upon her," re- 
X)lied Anne, trying not to give way to the loneliness that 
oppressed her. 

' ' Only that of being her nearest living relative, and 
natural heir." 



ANNE. 183 

"I have not considered the question of inheritance," 
replied the island girl, proudly. 

' ' I know you have not ; yet it is there. Old ladies, 
however, instead of natural heirs, are aj)t to prefer un- 
natural ones — cold-blooded Societies, Organizations, and 
the endless Heathen. But I am in earnest about the sum- 
mer. Crystal: spend it with me." 

"You are always generous to me," said Anne, grate- 
fully. 

' ' No ; I never w^as generous in my life. I do not know 
how to be generous. But this is the way it is : I am rich ; 
I want a companion ; and I like you. Your voice sup- 
ports mine i^erfectly, and is not in the least too loud — a 
thing I detest. Besides, we look well together. You 
are an excellent background for me ; you make me look 
poetic ; whereas most w^omen make me look like a car- 
icature of myself — of what I really am. As though a 
straw-bug should go out walking with a very attenuated 
grasshopper. Now if the straw-bug went out always with 
a plump young toad or wood-turtle, people might be found 
to admire even his hair-like fineness of limb and yellow 
transparency, by force, you know, of contrast." 

Anne laughed ; but there was also a slight change of 
expression in her face. 

"I can read you, Crystal," said Helen, laughing in her 
turn. ' ' Old Katharine has already told you all those 
things — sweet old lady! She understands me so well! 
Come; call it selfishness or generosity, as you please; 
but accept." 

"It is generosity, Helen ; which, however, I must de- 
cline." 

' ' It must be very inconvenient to be so conscientious," 
said Mrs. Lorrington. "But mind, I do not give it up. 
What ! lose so good a listener as you are ? To whom, 
then, can I confide the latest particulars respecting the 
Poet, the Bishop, the Knight-errant, and the Haunted 
Man ?" 

"I like the Bishop," said Anne, smiling back at her 
friend. She had acquired the idea, without words, that 
Helen liked him also. 



184 xVNNE. 

The story of Miss Vanhorn's change was, of course, 
related to Tante : Anne had great confidence both in the 
old Frenchwoman's kindness of heart and excellent judg- 
ment. 

Tante listened, asked a question or two, and then said : 
" Yes, yes, I see. For the present, nothing more can be 
done. She will allow you to finish your year here, and 
as the time is of value to you, you shall continue your 
studies through the vacation. But not at my New 
Jersey farm, as she supposes; at a better place than that. 
You shall go to Pitre." 

" A place, Tante ?" 

" No ; a friend of mine, and a woman." 

Mademoiselle Jeanne- Armande Pitre was not so old as 
Tante (Tante had friends of all ages) ; she was about fifty, 
but conveyed the impression of never having been young. 
' ' She is an excellent teacher, " continued the other French- 
woman, "and so closely avaricious that she will be glad 
to take you even for the small sum you will pay. She 
is employed in a Western seminary somewhere, but al- 
ways returns to this little house of hers for the summer 
vacation. Your opportunity for study with her will be 
excellent ; she has a rage for study. Write and tell your 
grandaunt, ma fille, what I have decided." 

" Ma fille" wrote; but Miss Vanhorn made no reply. 

Early in June, accompanied by "monsieur," Anne 
started on her little journey. The German music master 
said farewell with hearty regret. He was leaving also ; 
he should not be vrith Madame Moreau another winter, he 
said. The Italian atmosphere stifled him, and the very 
sight of Belzini made him ' ' dremble vit a er-righteous er- 
rage." He gave Anne his address, and begged that she 
would send to him when she wanted new music; "music 
vort someding." Monsieur Laurent, Anne's escort, was 
a nephew of Tante's, a fine-looking middle-aged French- 
man, who taught the verbs with a military air. But it 
was not so much his air as his dining-room which gave 
him importance in the eyes of the school. The " salle a 
manger de monsieur" was a small half -dark apartment, 
where he took his meals by himself. It was a mysterious 



AXNE. 185 

place ; monsieur was never seen there ; it was not known 
even at what hour he dined. But there were stories in 
whispered circulation of soups, sauces, salads, and wines 
served there in secret, which made the listeners hungry 
even in the mere recital. They peered into the dim little 
room as they passed, but never saw anything save a brown 
linen table-cloth, an old caster, and one chair. It was 
stated, however, that this caster was not a common caster, 
but that it held, instead of the ordinary pepper and mus- 
tard, various liquids and spices of mysterious nature, de- 
lightfully and wickedly French. 

In less than an hour the travellers reached Lancaster. 
Here monsieur placed Anne in a red wagon which was in 
waiting, said good-by hastily (being, perhaps, in a hurry 
to return to his dining-room), and caught the down train 
back to the city. He had lived in America so long that 
he could hurry like a native. 

The old horse attached to the red wagon walked slow- 
ly over a level winding road, switching his tail to and fro, 
and stopping now and then to cough, with the profundity 
which only a horse's cough possesses. At last, turning 
into a field, he stopped before what appeared to be a frag- 
ment of a house. 

"Is this the place V said Anne, surprised. 

" It's Miss Peter's," replied the boy driver. 

The appearance of Mademoiselle Pitre in person at the 
door now removed all doubt as to her abode. ' ' I am glad 
to see you," she said, extending a long yellow hand. 
"Enter." 

The house, which had never been finished, was old; 
the sides and back w^ere of brick, and the front of wood, 
temporarily boarded across. The kitchen and one room 
made all the deiDth ; above, there w^ere three small cham- 
bers. After a while, apparently, windows and a front 
door had been set in the temporary boarding, and a flight 
of steps added. Mademoiselle had bought the house in 
its unfinished condition, and had gradually become an 
object of great unpopularity in the neighborhood because, 
as season after season rolled by, she did nothing more to 
her purchase. What did she mean, then ? Simple com- 



186 ANNE. 

ment swelled into suspicion ; the penny-saving old maid 
was now considered a dark and mysterious person at 
Lancaster. Opinions varied as to whether she had com- 
mitted a crime in her youth, or intended to commit one 
in her age. At any rate, she was not like other people — 
in the country a heinous crime. 

The interior of this half -house was not uncomfortable, 
although arraiiged with the strictest economy. The chief 
room had been painted a brilliant blue by the skillful 
hands of mademoiselle herself ; there was no carpet, but 
in summer one can spare a carpet; and Anne thought 
the bright color, the growing plants and flowers, the gay- 
ly colored crockery, the four white cats, the sunshine, 
and the cool open space unfilled by furniture, quaintly 
foreign and attractive. 

The mistress of the house was tall and yellow. She 
was attired in a black velvet bodice, and a muslin skirt 
whereon a waving design, like an endless procession of 
spindling beet roots, or fat leeches going round and 
round, was depicted in dark crimson. This muslin was 
secretly admired in the neighborhood ; but as mademoi- 
selle never went to church, and, what was worse, made no 
change in her dress on the Sabbath-day, it was consider- 
ed a step toward rationalism to express the liking. 

Anne slept peacefully on her narrow bed, and went 
down to a savory breakfast the next morning. The old 
Irish servant, Nora, who came out from the city every 
s'^mmer to live with mademoiselle, prepared with skill 
the few dishes the careful mistress ordered. But when 
the meal was over, Anne soon discovered that the care- 
ful mistress was also an expert in teaching. Her French, 
Italian, music, and drawing were all reviewed and criti- 
cised, and then Jeanne-Armande put on her bonnet, and 
told her pupil to make ready for her first lesson in botany. 

" Am I to study botany ?'' said Anne, surprised. 

''All study botany who come to me," replied Jeanne- 
Armande, much in the tone of ' ' Lasciate ogni speranza voi 
ch' entrate." "Is that all the bonnet you have ? It is 
far too fine. I will buy you a Shaker at the shop." And 
with her tin flower case slung from her shoulder, she start- 




IN THE AVOODS. 



ANNE. 187 

ed down tlie road toward the country store at the corners ; 
here she bougrht a Shaker bonnet for her pupil, selecting 
one that was bent, and demanding- a reduction in price 
in consequence of the "irreparable injury to the fibre of 
the fabric." The shop-keeper, an anxious little man with 
a large family, did his best to keep on good terms with 
"the foreigner" privately, and to preserve on other occa- 
sions that appearance of virtuous disapproval which the 
neighborhood required of him. He lived haunted by a 
lear lest the Frenchwoman and her chief detractors should 
meet face to face in the narrow confines of his domain; 
and he had long determined that in case of such event he 
would be down in the cellar drawing molasses — an oper- 
ation universally known to consume time. But the sword 
of Damocles does not fall ; in this instance, as in others, 
mademoiselle departed in safety, bearing Anne away to 
the woods, her face hidden in the depths of the Shaker. 

Wild flowers, that seem so fresh and young, are, singu- 
larly enough, the especial prey of old maids. Young 
girls love the garden flowers ; beautiful women surround 
themselves with hot-house hues and perfumes. But who 
goes into the woods, explores the rocky glens, braves 
the swamps ? Always the ardent-hearted old maid, who, 
in her plain garb and thick shoes, is searching for the 
delicate little wild blossoms, the world over. 

Jeanne-Armande had an absorbing love for flowers, a 
glowing enthusiasm for botany. She now taught Anne 
the flovv^er study with what Tante would have called ' ' a 
rage." More than once the pupil thought how strange 
it was that fate should have forced into her hands at 
this late hour the talisman that might once have been 
the key to her grandaunt's favor. It did not occur to 
her that Tante was the Fate. 

Letters had come from all on the island, and from East, 
Regarding her course in telling Miss Vanhorn of her en- 
gagement. Miss Lois wrote that it was ' ' quite unneces- 
sary," and Dr. Gaston that it was "imprudent." Even 
East (this was hardest to bear) had written, ' ' While I am 
proud, dearest, to have your name linked with mine, still, 
I like better to think of the time when I can come and 



188 ANNE. 

claim you in person, in the face of all the grandaunts 
in the world, who, if they kneiv nothing, could not in the 
mean time harass and annoy you." 

Pere Michaux made no comment. Anne looked through 
Tita's letters for some time expectantly, but no message in 
his small, clear handwriting appeared. 

The weeks passed. The pupil learned the real kind- 
ness of the teacher, and never thought of laughing at 
her oddities, until — Helen came. 

For Helen came : on her way home from her grandfa- 
ther's bedside, whither she had been summoned (as usual 
two or three times each year) ''to see him die." 

' ' Grandpapa always recovers as soon as I enter the 
door," she said. "I should think he would insist upon 
my living there as a safeguard ! This time I did not even 
see him — he did not wish me in the room ; and so, having 
half a day to spare, I decided to send my maid on, and 
stop over and see you, Crystal." 

Anne, delighted and excited, sat looking at her friend 
with happy eyes. " I am so glad, glad, to see you!" she 
said. 

' ' Then present me to your hostess and jailer. For I 
intend to remain overnight, and corrupt the household." 

Jeanne- Armande was charmed witli their visitor ; she 
said she was "a lady decidedly as it should be." Helen 
accompanied them on their botany walk, observed the 
velvet bodice and beet -root muslin, complimented the 
ceremonious courses of the meagre little dinner, and did 
not laugh until they were safely ensconced in Anne's 
cell for the night. 

"But, Crystal," she said, when she had imitated Jeanne- 
Armande, and Anne herself as pupil, with such quick 
and ridiculous fidelity that Anne was obliged to bury her 
face in the pillow to stifle her laughter, ' ' I have a pur- 
pose in coming here. The old dragon has appeared at 
Caryl's, where Aunt Gretta and I spent last summer, and 
where we intend to spend the remainder of this ; she is 
even there to-night, caraway seeds, malice, and all. Now 
I want you to go back with me, as my guest for a week 
or two, and together we will annihilate her." 



ANNE. 189 

"Do not call her by that name, Helen." 

"Not respectful enough? Grand Llama, then; the 
double 1 scintillates with respect. The Grand Llama 
being present, I want to bring you on the scene as a 
charming, botanizing, singing niece whom she has 
strangely neglected. Will you go ?" 

"Of course I can not." 

"You have too many principles; and, mind you, prin- 
ciples are often shockingly egotistical and selfish. I 
would rather have a mountain of sins piled up against 
me on the judgment-day, and a crowd of friends whom I 
had helped and made happy, than the most snowy empty 
pious record in the world, and no such following." 

" One does not necessitate the other," said Anne, after 
her usual pause wdien with Helen : she was always a little 
behind Helen's fluent phrases. ' ' One can have friends 
without sins." 

" Wait and see," said Helen. 

In the morning the brilliant visitor took her departure, 
and the half-house fell back into its usual quietude. Anne 
did not go with Helen ; but Helen avowed her purpose of 
bringing her to Caryl's yet, in spite of fate. ' ' I am not 
easily defeated," she said. "When I wish a thing, it al 
ways happens. But, like the magicians, nobody notices 
how hard I have worked to have it happen." 

She departed. And witliin a week she filled Caryl's 
with descriptions of Jeanne- Armande, the velvet bodice, 
the beet-root skirt, the blue room, the white cats, and the 
dinner, together with the solitary pupil, whose knowledge 
of botany w^as something unparalleled in the history of 
the science. Caryl's was amused with the descriptions, 
and cared nothing for the reality. But when Miss Van- 
horn heard the tale, it was the reality that menaced her. 
No one knew as yet the name of the solitary pupil, nor 
the relationship to herself ; but of course Mrs. Lorrington 
was merely biding her time. What w^as her purpose ? 
In her heart she pondered over this new knowledge of 
botany, expressly paraded by Helen ; her own eyes and 
hands were not as sure and deft as formerly. Sometimes 
now when she stooped to gather a flower, it was only a 



190 ANNE. 

leaf with the sun shining on it, or a growth of fungus, 
yellowly white. ' ' Of course it is all a plan of old Mo- 
reau's," she said to herself. "Anne would never have 
thought of studying botany to gain my favor; she hasn't 
wit enough. It is old Moreau and the Lorrington to- 
gether. Let us see what will be their next step." 

But Helen merely decorated her stories, and told no- 
thing new. One day some one asked: "But who is this 
girl ? All this while you have not told us ; nor the place 
where this remarkable half -house is." 

"I am not at liberty to tell," rei^lied Helen's clear 
even voice. " That is not permitted — at x)resent." 

Miss Vanhorn fidgeted in her corner, and put up her 
glass to catch any wandering expressions that might be 
turning in her direction; but there were none. "She 
is giving me a chance of having Anne here peaceably," 
she thought. ' ' If, after a reasonable time, I do not accept 
it, she will declare war, and the house will ring with my 
hard-heartedness. Fortunately I do not care for hard- 
heartedness." 

She went off on her solitary drive ; mistook two flowers ; 
stumbled and hurt her ankle ; lost her magnifying-glass. 
On her way home she sat and meditated. It would be 
comfortable to have young eyes and hands to assist her. 
Also, if Anne was really there in jDcrson, then, when all 
the duets were sung, and the novelty (as well as difficul- 
ty) over, Mrs. Lorrington would be the first to weary of 
her protegee, and would let her fall like a faded leaf. 
And that would be the end of that. Here a sudden and 
new idea came to her : might not this very life at Caryl's 
break up, of itself, the engagement which was so obnox- 
ious ? If she should bring Anne here and introduce her 
as her niece, might not her very ignorance of the world 
and crude simplicity attract the attention of some of 
the loungers at Caryl's, who, if they exerted themselves, 
would have little difficulty in effacing the memory of that 
boy on the island ? They would not, of course, be in earn- 
est, but the result would be accomijlished all the same. 
Anne was impressionable, and truthfulness itself. Yes, 
it could be done. 



ANNE, 19J 

Accompanied by her elderly maid, she went back to 
New York ; and then out to the half-house. 

"I have changed my mind," she announced, abruptly, 
taking her seat upon Jeanne- Armande's hard s©f a. ' ' You 
are to come with me. This is the blue room, I suppose ; 
and there are the four cats. Where is the bodiced wo- 
man? Send her to me; and go pack your clothes im- 
mediately." 

"Am I to go to Caryl's — where Helen is?" said Anne, 
in excited surprise. 

"Yes; you will see your Helen. You understand, I 
presume, that she is at the bottom of all this." 

" But — do you like Helen, grandaunt ?" 

"I am extremely fond of her," replied Miss Vanhorn, 
dryly. "Run and make ready; and send the bodiced 
woman to me. I give you half an hour; no longer." 

Jeanne- Armande came in with her gliding step. In her 
youth a lady's footfall was never Iieard. She wore long 
naiTow cloth gaiters without heels, met at the ankles by 
two modest ruffles, whose edges were visible when the 
wind blew. The exposure of even a hair's-breadth rim 
of ankle would have seemed to her an unpardonable im- 
propriety. However, there was no danger; the ruffles 
swept the ground. 

The Frenchwoman was grieved to part with her pupil ; 
she had conceived a real affection for her in the busy 
spot which served her as a heart. She said good-by in 
the privacy of the kitchen, tliat Miss Vanhorn might not 
see the tears in her eyes ; then she returned to the blue 
room and went through a second farewell, with a dignity 
appropriate to the occasion. 

" Grood-by," said Anne, coming back from the doorway 
to kiss her thin cheek a second time. Then she whisper- 
ed: "I may return to you after all, mademoiselle. Do 
not forget me." 

"The dear child!" said Jeanne- Armande, waving her 
handkerchief as the carriage drove away. And there was 
a lump in her yellow old throat which did not disappear 
all day. 



192 ANNE. 



Chapter XI. 

" Those who honestly make their own way without the aid of fortu< 
nate circumstances and by the force of their own inteUigence. This 
includes the great multitude of Americans." 

— George William Curtis. 

"He is a good fellow, spoiled. Whether he can be unspoiled, is 
doubtful. It might be accomplished by the Blessing we call Sorrow." 

When the two travellers arrived at Caryl's, Helen was 
gone. Another telegraphic dispatch had again sum- 
moned her to her frequently dying grandfather. 

"You are disappointed," said Miss Vanhorn. 

"Yes, grandaunt," 

"You will have all the more time to devote to me," 
said the old woman, with her dry little laugh. 

Caryl's was a summer resort of an especial kind. Per- 
sons w^ho dislike crowds, persons who seek novelty, and, 
above all, persons who spend their lives in carefully avoid- 
ing every thing and place which can even remotely be 
called popular, combine to make such nooks, and give 
them a brief fame — a fame which by its very nature must 
die as suddenly as it is born. Caryl's was originally a 
stage inn, or "tarvern," in the dialect of the district. 
But the stage ran no longer, and as the railway was 
several miles distant, the house had become as isolated 
as the old road before its door, which went literally no- 
where, the bridge w^hich had once spanned the river hav- 
ing fallen into ruin. Some young men belonging to those 
New York families designated by Tante as ' ' Neeker-bo- 
kers" discovered Caryl's by chance, and established them- 
selves there as a place free from new people, with some 
shooting, and a few trout. The next summer they 



ANNE. 193 

brought their friends, and from this beginning had swift- 
ly grown the present state of things, namely, two hundred 
persons occupying the old building and hastily erected 
cottages, in rooms which their city servants would have 
refused with scorn. 

The crowd of summer travellers could not find Caryl's ; 
CaryFs was not advertised. It was not on the road to 
anywhere. It was a mysterious spot. The vogue of such 
places changes as fantastically as it is created ; the x^eople 
who make it take fl-ight suddenly, and never return. If 
it exist at all, it falls into the hands of another class; and 
there is a great deal of w^ondering (deservedly) over what 
was ever found attractive in it. The nobler ocean beach- 
es, grand mountains, and bounteous springs w^ill always 
be, must always be, popular ; it is Nature's ironical meth- 
od, perhaps, of forcing the w^ould-be exclusives to content 
themselves with her second best, after all. 

CaryFs, now at the height of its transient fame, w^as 
merely a quiet nook in the green country, with no more 
attra<}tions than a hundred others ; but the old piazza was 
paced by the little high-heeled shoes of fashionable wo- 
men, the uneven floors swept by their trailing skirts. 
French maids and little bare-legged children sported in 
the old-fashioned garden, and young men made up their 
shooting parties in the bare office, and danced in the 
evening — yes, really danced, not leaving it superciliously 
to the boys — in the rackety bow^ling-alley, which, re- 
floored, did duty as a ball-room. There was a certain 
woody, uncloying flavor about CaryFs (so it was assert- 
ed), W'hich could not exist amid the gilding of Saratoga. 
All this Miss Vanhorn related to her niece on the day of 
their arrival. " I do not expect you to understand it, " she 
said ; ' ' but pray make no comment ; ask no question . Ac ■ 
cept everything, and then you will pass," 

Aunt and niece had spent a few days in New York, 
en route. The old lady v/as eccentric about her own at- 
tire; she knew that she could afford to be eccentric. But 
for her niece she purchased a sufficient although simple 
supply of summer costumes, so that the young girl made 
her appearance among the others without attracting es 

13 



194 ANNE. 

pecial attention. Helen was not there ; no one identified 
Miss Douglas as the vara avis of her fantastic narrations. 
And there was no surface sparkle about Anne, none of 
the usual girlish wish to attract attention, which makes 
the eyes brighten, the color rise, and the breath quick- 
en when entering a new circle. 

That old woman of the world, Katharine Vanhorn, 
took no step to attract notice to her niece. She knew 
that Anne's beauty was of the kind that could afford to 
wait; people would discover it for themselves. Anne 
remained, therefore, quietly by her side through several 
days, while she, not unwilling at heart to have so fresh a 
listener, tallvcd on and instructed her. Miss Vanhorn was 
not naturally brilliant, but she was one of those society 
women who, in the course of years of fashionable life, 
have selected and retained for their own use excellent bits 
of phrasing not original with themselves, idiomatic epi- 
thets, a way of neatly describing a person in a word or 
two as though you had ticketed him, until the listener 
really takes for brilliancy what is no more than a thread- 
and-needle shoj) of other people's wares. 

"Any man," she said, as they sat in the transformed 
bowling-alley — "anj'' man, no matter how insignificant 
and unattractive, can be made to believe that any woman, 
no matter how beautiful or brilliant, is in love with him, 
at the expense of two looks and one sigh." 

" But who cares to make him believe ?" said Anne, with 
the unaffected, cheerful indifference which belonged to 
her, and which had already quieted Miss Vanhorn's f eai^s 
as to any awkward self-consciousness. 

"Most women." 

"Why?" 

' ' To swell their trains, " replied the old woman. ' ' Isa- 
bel Varce, over there in blue, and Eachel Bannert, the 
one in black, care for nothing else." 

"Mrs. Bannert is very ugly," said Anne, with the calm 
certainty of girlhood. 

"Oh, is she?" said Miss Vanhorn, laughing shortly. 
"You will change your mind, my Phyllis; you will 
learn that a dark skin and half-open eyes are superb." 



ANNE. 195 

*'If Helen was here, people would see real beauty," 
answered Anne, with some scorn. 

' ' They are a contrast, I admit ; opposite types. But we 
must not be narrow, Phyllis ; you will find that people 
continue to look at Mrs. Bannert, no matter who is by. 
Here is some one Avho seems to know you." 

"Mr. Dexter," said Anne, as the tall form drew near. 
" He is a friend of Helen's." 

' ' Helen has a great many friends. However, I hap- 
pen to have heard of this Mr. Dexter. You may present 
him to me — I hope you know how." 

All Madame Moreau's pupils knew how. Anne per- 
formed her task properly, and Dexter, bringing forward 
one of the old broken-backed chairs (which formed part 
of the "woody and uncloying flavor" of Caryl's), sat 
down beside them. 

' ' I am surprised that you remembered me, Mr. Dexter," 
said the girl. ' ' You saw me but once, and on New- Year's 
Day too, among so many." 

"But you remembered me. Miss Douglas." 

"That is different. You were kind to me — about the 
singing. It is natural that I should remember." 

' ' And why not as natural that I should remember the 
singing ?" 

' ' Because it was not good enough to have made any es- 
l^ecial impression," replied Anne, looking at him calm- 
ly with her clear violet eyes. 

' ' It was at least new — I mean the simplicity of the lit- 
tle ballad, " said Dexter, ceasing to compliment, and speak- 
ing only the truth. 

"Simplicity!" said Miss Vanhorn: "I am tired of it. 
I hope, Anne, you will not sing any simplicity songs 
here; those ridiculous things about bringing an ivy leaf, 
only an ivy leaf, and that it was but a little faded flower. 
They show an extremely miserly spirit, I think. If you 
can not give your friends a whole blossom or a fresh 
one, you had better not give them any at all." 

"Who was it who said that he was sated with poetry 
about flowers, and that if the Muses must come in every- 
where, he wished they would not always come as green- 



19G ANNE. 

grocers ?" said Dexter, who knew perfectly the home of 
this as of every other quotation, but always jDlaced it in 
that way to give people an opportunity of saying, ' ' Charles 
Lamb, wasn't it?" or ''Sheridan?'' It made conversation , 
flowing. 

"The flowers do not need the Muses," said Miss Van- 
horn — "slatternly creatures, with no fit to their gowns. 
Arid that reminds me of what Anne was saying as you 
came up, Mr. Dexter; she was calmly and decisively ob- 
serving that Mrs. Bannert was very ugly." 

A smile crossed Dexter's face in answer to the old wo- 
man's short dry laugh. 

"I added that if Mrs. Lorrington was here, people 
would see real beauty," said Anne, distressed by this be- 
trayal, but standing by her guns. 

Miss Vanhorn laughed again. "Mr. Dexter particu- 
larly admires Mrs. Bannert, child," she said, cheerfully, 
having had the unexpected amusement of tw^o good laughs 
in an evening. 

But Anne, instead of showing embarrassment, turned 
her eyes toward Dexter, as if in honest inquiry. 

"Mrs. Bannert represents the Oriental type of beauty," 
he answered, smiling, as he perceived her frank want 
of agreement. 

"Say Creole," said Miss Vanhorn. "It is a novelty, 
child, which has made its ai)X)earance lately ; a reaction 
after the narrow-chested type which has so long in Amer- 
ica held undisputed sway. We absolutely take a quad- 
roon to get away from the consumptive, blue-eyed saint, 
of w^liom we are all desperately tired." 

' ' New York city is now developing a tjqje of its own, 
I think," said Dexter. "You can tell a New York girl at 
a glance when you meet her in the West or the South. 
Women walk more in the city than they do elsewhere, 
and that has given them a firm step and bearing, which 
are noticeable." 

' ' To think of comparisons between different parts of this 
raw land of ours, as though they had especial character- 
istics of their own !" said Miss Vanhorn, looking for a 
seed. 



ANxXE. 197 

"You have not travelled mucli in this country, I pre- 
sume," said Dexter. 

"No, man, no. When I travel, I go abroad." 

"I have never been abroad," answered Dexter, quietly. 
' ' But I can see a difference between the people of Massa- 
chusetts and the people of South Carolina, the people 
of Philadelphia and the people of San Francisco, which 
is marked and of the soil. I even think that I can tell 
a Baltimore, Buffalo, Chicago, Louisville, or St. Louis 
family at sight. " 

"You go to all those places?" said Miss Vanhorn, half 
closing her eyes, and speaking in a languid voice, a,s if 
the subject was too remote for close attention. 

"Yes. You are not aware that I am a business man." 

"Ah ? What is it you do ?" said the old woman, who 
knew x^erf ectly Dexter's entire history, but wanted to hear 
his own account of himself. 

"I am interested in iron-, that is, I have iron mills, 
and — other things." 

' ' Exactly ; as you say — other things. Does that mean 
politics ?" 

"Partly," said Dexter, smiling. 

"And oil?" 

' ' No. I have never had any opportunity to coin gold 
with the Aladdin's lam^) found in Pennsylvania. There 
is no magic in any of my occupations ; they are all regu- 
lar and commonplace." 

"Are you in Congress now" ?" 

"No; I was only there one term." 

"A bore, isn't it?" 

"Not to me." 

"Congress is always a riot," said Miss Vanhorn, still 
with her eyes closed. 

"I can not agree with you," said Dexter, his face tak- 
ing on one of its resolute expressions. "I have small 
patience with those Americans w^ho affect to be above any 
interest in the government of the country in which they 
live. It is their country, and they can no more alter that 
fact than they can change their plain grandfathers into 
foreion noblemen." 



198 ANNE. 

"Dear me! dear nie!" said Miss Vanliorn, carelessly. 
"You talk to me as if I were a mass-meeting." 

"I beg your pardon," said Dexter, liis former manner 
returning. ' ' I forgot for the moment that no one is in 
earnest at Caryl's." 

"By-the-way, how did you ever get in here?" said 
Miss Vanhorn, with frank impertinence. 

"I came because I like to see all sides of society," he 
replied, smiling down upon her with amused eyes. 

"Give me your arm. You amount to something," 
said the old woman, rising. "We will walk up and 
down for a few moments ; and, Anne, you can come too." 

"I am almost sure that he is Helen's Knight-errant," 
thought Anne. "And I like him very much." 

A niece of Miss Vanhorn's could not of course be slight- 
ed. The next day Isabel Varce came up and talked a 
while ; later, Mrs. Bannert and the others followed. 
Gregory Dexter was with aunt and niece frequently ; and 
Miss Vanhorn was pleased to be very gracious. She talk- 
ed to him herself most of the time, while Anne watched 
the current of the new life round her. Other men had 
been presented to her ; and among them she thought she 
recognized the Chanting Tenor and the Poet of Helen's 
narratives. She could not write to Helen ; the eccentric 
grandfather objected to letters. ' ' Fools and women clog 
the mails," was one of his favorite assertions. But al- 
though Anne could not write, Helen could smuggle let- 
ters occasionally into the outgoing mail-bags, and when 
she learned that Anne was at Caryl's, she wrote imme- 
diately. "Have you seen Isabel Varce yet ?" ran the let- 
ter. ' ' And Rachel Bannert ? The former is my dearest 
rival, the latter my deadliest friend. Use your eyes, I 
beg. What amusement I shall have hearing your de- 
scriptions when I come ! For of course you will make 
the blindest mistakes. However, a blind man has been 
known to see sometimes what other people have never 
discovered. How is the Grand Llama ? I conquered her 
at last, as I told you I should. With a liigh pressure of 
magnanimity. But it was all for my own sake; and 
now, behold, I am here ! But you can study the Bishop, 



ANNE. 199 

the Poet, the Tenor, and the Knight-errant in the flesh ; 
how do you like the Knight ?'' 

"This place is a prison," wrote Helen, again; "and I 
am in the mean time consumed Avith curiosity to know 
li'hat is going on at Caryl's. Please answer my letters, 
and put the answers away until I come; it is the only 
method I can think of by which I can get the aroma of 
each day. Or, rather, not the aroma, hut the facts ; you 
do not know much of aromas. If facts were 'a divine 
thing' to Frederick the Great (Mr. Dexter told me that, of 
course) , they are certainly extremely solemn to you. Tell 
me, then, what everybody is doing. And particularly 
the Bishof) and the Knight-errant." 

And Anne answered the letters faithfully, telling every- 
thing she noticed, especially as to Dexter. Who the 
Bishop was she had not been able to decide. 

In addition to the others, Ward Heathcote had now 
arrived at Caryl's, also Mr. Blum. 

In the mean time Miss Vanhorn had tested without 
delay her niece's new knowledge of botany. Her face 
was flushed and her hand fairly trembled with eagerness 
as she gave Anne her first wild flower, and ordered her to 
analyze it. Would she blunder, or show herself dull 
and incompetent ? One thing was certain : no pretended 
zeal could deceive old Katharine — she knew the reality too 
well. 

But there was no pretense. Anne, honest as usual, 
analyzed the flower with some mistakes, but with real in- 
terest; and the keen black eyes recognized the genuine 
hue of the feeling, as far as it went. After that initia- 
tion, every morning they drove to the woods, and Anne 
searched in all directions, coming back loaded down with 
spoil. Everj^ afternoon there followed analyzing, press- 
ing, drying, and labelling, for hours. 

"Pray leave the foundations of our bridge intact," 
called Isabel Varce, passing on horseback, accompanied 
by Ward Heathcote, and looking down at Anne digging 
up something on the bank below, while at a little dis- 
tance Miss Vanhorn's coupe was waiting, with the old 
lady's hard face looking out through the closed window. 



200 AiUlsE. 

Anne laughed, and turned her face, glowing with rose* 
color, upward to look at them. 

''Do you like that sort of thing V said Isabel, pausing, 
having noted at a glance that the young girl was attired 
in old clothes, and appeared in every way at a disad- 
vantage. She had no especial malice toward Anne in this ; 
she merely acted on general principles as applied to all 
of her own sex. But even the most acute feminine minds 
make mistakes on one subject, namely, they forget that 
to a man dress is not the woman. Anne, in her faded 
gown, dow^n on the muddy bank, with her hat off, her 
boots begrimed, and her zeal for the root she was digging 
up, seemed to Ward Heathcote a new and striking crea- 
ture. The wind ruffled her thick brown hair and blew 
it into little rings and curls about her face, her eyes, un- 
flinching in the brilliant sunshine, laughed back at them 
as they looked over the railing ; the lines of her shoul- 
der and extended arms were of noble beauty. To a wo- 
man's eyes a perfect sleeve is of the highest importance ; 
it did not occur to Isabel that through the ugly, baggy, 
out-of-date sleeve down there on the bank, the wind, 
sturdily blowing, was revealing an arm whose outline silk 
and lace could never rival. Satisfied Avitli her manoeu- 
vre, she rode on : Anne certainly looked what all women 
would have called " a fright." 

Yet tliat very evening Heathcote approached, recalled 
himself to Miss Vanhorn's short memory, and, after a few 
moments of conversation, sat down beside Anne, who 
received him with the same frank i)redisposition to be 
pleased which she gave to all alike. Heathcote was not 
a talker like Dexter ; he seemed to have little to say at 
any time. \[e was one of a small and unimportant class 
in the United States, which would be very offensive to 
citizens at large if it came in contact with them ; but it 
seldom does. To this class there is no city in America 
save New York, and New York itself is only partially 
endurable. Na.tional reputations are nothing, politics 
nothing. Money is necessary, and ought to be provid- 
ed in some way ; and generally it is, since without it this 
class could not exist in a purely democratic land. But 



ANNE. 201 

it is inherited, not made. It may be said that simply 
the large landed estates acquired at an early date in the 
vicinity of the city, and immensely increased in value 
by the growth of the metropolis, have produced this class, 
which, however, having no barriers, can never be perma- 
nent, or make to itself law^s. Heathcote's great-grand- 
father w^as a landed proprietor in Westchester County ; 
he had lived well, and died at a good old age, to be suc- 
ceeded by his son, who also lived w^ell, and died not so 
well, and poorer than his father. The grandson increased 
tlie ratio in both cases, leaving to his little boy, Ward, 
but a small portion of the original fortune, and departing 
from the custom of the house in that he died early. The 
boy, w^ithout father, mother, brother, or sister, grew up 
under the care of guardians, and, upon coming of age, 
took possession of the remnant left to him. A good 
X^ortion of this he himself had lost, not so much from ex- 
travagance, however, as carelessness. He had been 
abroad, of course, and had adopted English ways, but 
not with any violence. He left that to others. He pass- 
ed for good-natured in the main; he w^as not restless. 
He was quite willing that other men should have more 
luxuries than he had — a yacht, for instance, or fine horses ; 
he felt no irritation on the subject. On the other hand, 
he would have been much sur^Drised to learn that any one 
longed to take him out and knock him down, simply as an 
insufferable object. Yet Gregory Dexter had that long- 
ing at times so strongly that his hand fairly quivered. 

Heathcote was slightly above middle height, and well 
built, but his gait v,^as indolent and careless. Good fea- 
tures unlighted by animation, a brown skin, brown eyes 
ordinarily rather lethargic, thick brown hair and mus- 
tache, and heavy eyebrows standing out prominently 
from the face in profile view, were the items ordinarily 
given in a general description. He had a low-toned voice 
and slow manner, in w^iich, however, there was no af- 
fectation. What was the use of doing anything with 
any particular effort ? He had no antipathy for persons 
of other habits; the world was large. It was noticed, 
however (or rather it was not noticed), that he generally 



202 AXNE. 

got away from them as soon as he quietly could. He 
had lived to be thirty-two years old, and had on the 
whole enjoyed life so far, although he was neither es- 
pecially important, handsome, nor rich. The secret of 
this lay in one fact : w^omen liked him. 

What was it that they found to like in him ? This was 
the question asked often in irritation by his brother man. 
And naturally. For the women themselves could not 
give a reasonable reason. The corresponding side of life 
is not the same, since men admire with a reason ; the wo- 
man is plainly beautiful, or brilliant, or fascinating round 
whom they gather. At Caryl's seven or eight men were 
handsomer than Heathcote ; a number were more brill- 
iant; many were richer. Yet almost all of these had dis- 
covered, at one time or another, that the eyes they were 
talking to were following Heathcote furtively ; and they 
had seen attempts that made them tingle with anger — all 
the more so because they were so infinitesimally delicate 
and fine, as became the actions of Avell-bred women. One 
or two, who had married, had had explained to them 
elaborately by their wives what it was they (in their free 
days, of course) had liked in Heathcote — elaborately, if 
not clearly. The husbands gathered generally that it 
was only a way he had, a manner ; the liking was half 
imaginative, after all. Now Heathcote w^as not in the 
least imaginative. But the women w^ere. 

Manly qualities, good hearts, handsome faces, and great- 
er wealth held their own in fact against him. Marriages 
took place in his circle, wedding chimes pealed, and 
brides were happy under their veils in spite of him. 
Yet, as histories of lives go, there was a decided bal- 
ance in his favor of feminine regard, and no one could 
deny it. 

He had now but a small income, and had been obliged 
to come down to a very simple manner of life. Those 
who disliked him said that of course he would marry 
money. As yet, however, he had shown no signs of ful- 
filling his destiny in this respect. He seldom took the 
trouble to express his opinions, and therefore passed as 
having none; but those who were clear-sighted knew 



ANNE. 20S 

better. Dexter was one of these, and this entire absence 
of self-assertion in Ward Heathcote stung him. For 
Dexter always asserted himself; he could not help it. He 
came in at this moment, and noted Heathcote's position 
near Anne. Obeying- an impulse, he crossed the room 
immediately, and beg-an a counter-conversation with Miss 
Vanhorn, the chaperon. 

"Trying to interest that child," he thought, as he 
listened to the grandaunt with the air of deferential at- 
tention she likedf so w^ell. With eyes that apparently 
never once glanced in their direction, he kept close watch 
of the two bej^ond. ''She is no match for him," he 
thought, with indignation; "she has had no experience. 
It ought not to be allowed." 

But Dexter always mistook Heathcote; he gave him 
credit for plans and theories of which Heathcote never 
dreamed. In fact, he judged him by himself. Heath- 
cote was merely talking to Anne now in the absence of 
other entertainment, having felt some slight curiosity 
about her because she had looked so bright and contented 
on the mud-bank under the bridge. He tried to recall 
his impression of her on New- Year's Day, and determined 
to refresh his memory by Blum ; but, in the mean time, 
outwardly, his manner was as though, silently of course, 
but none the less deeply, he had dwelt upon her image 
ever since. It was this impalpable manner w^liich made 
Dexter indignant. He knew it so w^ell ! He said to him- 
self that it was a lie. And, generally speaking, it was. 
But possibly in this case (as in others) it was not so much 
the falsity of the manner as its success which annoyed the 
other man. 

He could not hear what was said ; and the words, in 
truth, w^ere not many or brilliant. But he knew the sort 
of quiet glance w^itli which they w^ere being accompanied. 
Yet Dexter, quick and suspicious as he w^as, would nev- 
er have discovered that glance unaided. He liad learned 
it from another, and that other, of course, a woman. 
For once in a while it hapiDcns that a woman, w^hen 
roused to fury, wall pour out the whole story of her 
wrongs to some man who happens to be near. No man 



204 ANNE. 

does this. He has not the same need of expression ; and, 
besides, he will never show himself at such a disadvan- 
tage voluntarily, even for the sake of comfort. He 
would rather remain uncomforted. But women of strong 
feelings often, when excited, cast wisdom to the winds, 
and even seem to find a desperate satisfaction in the 
most hazardous imprudences, which can injure only them- 
selves. In a mood of this kind, some one had poured out 
to Gregory Dexter bitter testimony against Heathcote, 
one-sided, perhaps, but photographically accurate in all 
the details, which are so much to women. Dexter had 
listened with inward anger and contempt ; but he had 
listened. And he had recognized, besides, the accent of 
truth in every word. The narrator was now in Austria 
with a new and foreign husband, apparently as happy as 
the day is long. But the listener had never forgotten 
or forgiven her account of Heathcote's method and man- 
ner. He said to himself that he despised it, and he did 
desx)ise it. Still, in some occult way, one may be jealous 
of results attained even by ways and means for which 
one feels a righteous contempt; and the more so when 
one has a firm confidence in his own abilities, which have 
not yet, however, been openly recognized in that field. 
In all other fields Gregory Dexter was a marked type of 
American success. 

As the days moved slowly on, he kept watch of Heath- 
cote. It was more a determination to foil him than in- 
terest in Anne which made him add himself as a third 
v/henever he could unobtrusively ; which was not often, 
since Miss Vanhorn liked to talk to him herself, and 
Anne knew no more how to aid him than a nun. After 
a while Heathcote became conscious of this watchful- 
ness, and it amused him. His idea of Dexter was "a 
clever sort of fellow, who has made money, and is am- 
bitious. Goes in for j)olitics, and that sort of thing. 
Talks well, but too much. Tiresome." He began to de- 
vote himself to Anne now in a difi'erent way ; hitherto he 
had been only entertaining himself (and rather languid^ 
ly) by a study of her fresh naive truthfulness. He had 
drawn out her history ; he, too, knew of the island,, the 



ANNE. 205 

fort, and the dog trains. Poor Anne was always elo- 
quent on these subjects. Her color rose, her words came 
quickly. 

" You are fond of the island," he said, one evening, as 
they sat on the piazza in the moonlight, Dexter within 
three feet of them, but unable to hear their murmured 
words. For Heathcote had a way of interposing his 
shoulder between listeners and the person to whom he 
was talking, which made the breadth of woollen cloth as 
much a barrier as a stone wall ; he did this more frequent- 
ly now that he had discovered Dexter s watchfulness. 

' ' Yes, " said Anne, in as lovr a voice as his own . Then 
suddenly, j)lainly visible to him in the moonlight, tears 
welled up and dropped upon her cheeks. 

She had been homesick all day. Sometimes Miss Van- 
horn was hard and cold as a bronze statue in winter; 
sometimes she was as quick and fiery as if charged with 
electricity. Sometimes she veered between the two. To- 
day had been one of the veering days, and Anne had 
worked over the dried plants five hours in a close room, 
now a mark for sarcastic darts of ridicule, now enduring 
an icy silence, until her lot seemed too heavy to bear. She 
had learned to understand the old woman's moods, but 
understanding pain does not make it lighter. Released 
at last, a great wave of homesickness had swept over 
her, which did not, however, break bounds until Heath- 
cote's words touched the s]3ring ; then the gates opened and 
the tears came. 

They had no sooner dropped upon her cheeks, one, two, 
three, than she was overwhelmed with hot shame at hav- 
ing allowed them to fall, and with fear lest any one 
should notice them. Mr. Heathcote had seen them, that 
was hopelessly certain ; but if only she could keep tliem 
from her grandaunt I Yet she did not dare to lift her 
handkerchief lest its white should attract attention. 

But Heathcote knew what to do. 

As soon as he saw the tears (to him, of course, totally 
unexpected; but girls are so), he raised his straw hat, 
which lay on his knee, and, holding it by the crown, be- 
gan elaborately to explain some peculiarity in the lin- 



206 ANNE. 

ing- (he called it South American) invented for the occa- 
sion, at the same time, by the motion, screening her face 
comx)letely from observation on the other side. But Anne 
could not check iierself ; the very shelter brought thicker 
drops. He could not hold his hat in that position for- 
ever, even to look at Brazilian linings. He rose suddenly, 
and standing in front so as to screen her, he cried, "A 
bat! a bat!" at the same time making a pass with his 
hat as though he saw it in the air. 

Every one on the piazza rose, darted aside hither and 
thither, the ladies covering their heads with their fans and 
handkerchiefs, the men making passes with their hats, as 
usual on bat occasions; every one was sure the noxious 
creature flew by. For a number of minutes confusion 
reigned. When it was over, Anne's cheeks were dry, and 
a little cobweb tie had been formed between herself and 
Heathcote. It was too slight to be noticed, but it was 
there. 



Chapter XII. 

" Le hasard salt ce qu'il fait !" — French Proverb. 

The next day there was a picnic. No one wished to go 
especially save Isabel Varce, but no one opposed her wish. 
At Caryl's they generally followed whatever was sug- 
gested, with indolent acquiescence. Miss Vanhorn, how- 
ever, being a contrary planet revolving in an orbit of 
her own, at first declined to go; there were important 
plants to finish. But Mr. Dexter persuaded her to change 
her mind, and, with Anne, to accompany him in a cer- 
tain light carriage which he had ordered from the next 
town, more comfortable than the Caryl red wagons, and 
not so heavy as her own coupe. Miss Vanhorn liked to 
be comfortable, and she was playing the part also of lik- 
ing Gregory Dexter ; she therefore accepted. She knew 
perfectly well that Dexter's "light carriage" had not come 
from the next town, but from New York ; and she smiled 
at what she considered the effort of this new man to con- 
ceal his lavishness. But she was quite willing that he 



ANNE. 207 

should spend his money to gain her favor (she having 
ah'eady decided to give it to him), and therefore it was 
with contentment that she stepi)ed into the carriage — 
a model of its kind — on the morning of the appointed day, 
and put up her glass to watch the others ascending, hy a 
little flight of steps, to the high table-land of the red 
wagons. Mr. Heathcote was on horseback ; he dismount- 
ed, however, to assist Mrs. Bannert to her place. He 
raised his hat to Anne with his usual quiet manner, but 
she returned his salutation with a bright smile. She 
was grateful to him. Had he not been kind to her ? 

The picnic was like most picnics of the sort — heavy 
work for the servants, languid amusement, not unmixed 
with only partially concealed ennui, on the part of the 
guests. There was but little wandering away, the par- 
ticipants being too few for much severance. They stroll- 
ed through the woods in long-drawn links; they went to 
see a view from a knoll; they sang a few songs gently, 
faint pipings from the ladies, and nothing from the men 
(Blum being absent) save the correct bass of Dexter, 
which seemed very far down indeed in the cellars of mel- 
ody, while the ladies were on the high battlements. 
The conversation was never exactly allowed to die out, 
yet it languished. Almost all would rather have been at 
home. The men especially found small jileasure in sit- 
ting on the ground ; besides, a distinct consciousness that 
the attitude was not becoming. For the American does 
not possess a taste for throwing himself heartily down 
upon Mother Earth. He can camp ; he can hunt, swim, 
ride, walk, use Indian clubs, play base-ball, drive, row, sail 
a yacht, or even guide a balloon ; but when it comes to 
grass, give him a bench. 

Isabel Varce, in a Avonderful costume of woodland 
green, her somewhat sharp features shaded by a shep- 
herdess hat, carried out her purpose — the subjugation of 
a certain Peter Dane, a widower of distinction, a late ar- 
rival at Caryl's. Mrs. Bannert had Ward Heathcote by 
her side, apparently to the satisfaction of both. Other 
men and women were contented or discontented as it hap- 
pened ; and two or three school-girls of twelve or thirteen 



208 ANNE. 

really eiijoj^ed themselves, being at the happy age when 
blue sky and golden sunshine, green woods and lunch on 
the grass, are all that is necessary for sui)reme happiness. 
There was one comic element present, and by mistake. 
A reverend gentleman of the kind that calls everybody 
"brother 'had arrived unexpectedly at Caryl's; he was 
journeying for the purpose of distributing certain thin 
pamphlets of powerfully persuasive influence as to gen- 
eral virtue, and as he had not been over that ground for 
some years, he had no suspicion that Caryl's had changed, 
or that it was any more important than Barr's, Murphy's, 
Allen's, and other hamlets in the neighborhood and pos- 
sessive case, with whose attributes he was familiar. Old 
John Caryl had taken him in for a night or two, and 
had ordered the unused school-house at the cross-roads to 
be swept out for a hamlet evening service ; but the hamlet 
could not confine the Reverend Ezra Sloane. His heart 
waxed warm within him at the sight of so many x)er- 
sons, all well-to-do, pleasant to the eye, and apparently 
not pressed for time. He had spent his life in minister- 
ing to the poor in this world's goods, and to the workers 
who had no leisure; it was a new pleasure to him simply 
to be among the agreeable, well-dressed, and unanxious. 
He took his best coat from his lean valise, and wore it 
steadily. He was so happy in his child-like satisfaction 
that no one rebuffed him, and when he presented himself, 
blandly smiling, to join the picnic party, no one had the 
heart to tell him of his mistake. As he climbed com- 
placently into one of the wagons, however, stiff old Mrs. 
Bannert, on the back seat, gave John Caryl, standing at 
the horses' heads, a look which he understood. The Rev- 
erend Ezra must depart the next morning, or be merged 
— conclusively merged — in the hamlet. His fate was 
sealed. But to-day he disf)orted himself to his heart's 
content ; his smiling face was everywhere. He went 
eagerly through the woods, joining now one group, now 
another ; he laughed when they laughed, understanding, 
however, but few of their allusions. He was restlessly 
anxious to join in the singing, but could not, as he did 
not know their songs, and he proposed, in entire good 




"he took his best coat from his lean valise." 



AXNE. 209 

faith, one or two psalms, giving- them up, however, im- 
mediately, when old Mrs. Bannert, who had taken upon 
herself the task of keeping him down, remarked sternly 
that no one knew the tunes. He went to see the view, 
and extending his hand, said, in his best manner, "Be- 
hold ! brethren, is there not hill, and dale, and mountain, 
and valley, and— river ?" As he said "river" he closed 
his eyes impressively, and stood there among them the 
image of self-complacence. The w4nd blew out his black 
coat, and showed how thin it was, and the wearer as well. 

"Why is it always a thin, w^eakly man like that who 
insists upon calling people ' brethren' ?'' said Heathcot«, 
as they stood a little apart. 

' ' Because, being weakly, we can not knock him down 
for it, as we certainly should do if he was stronger," said 
Dexter. 

But it was especially at lunch that the Reverend Ezra 
shone forth ; rising to tlie occasion, he brought forth all 
the gallant speeches of his youth, which had much the 
air of his grandfather's Green Mountain musket. Some 
of his phrases Anne recognized : Miss Lois used them. 
The young girl was pained lo see how out of place he 
was, how absurd in his well-intentioned efforts ; and she 
therefore drew him a little apart, and strove to entertain 
him herself. She had known plain people on the island, 
and had experienced much of their faithful goodness and 
generosity in times of trouble ; it hurt her to have him rid- 
iculed. It came out, during this conversation, that he 
knew something of botany, and on the strength of this 
passport she took him to Miss Vanhorn. The Reverend 
Ezra really did understand the flora of the district, through 
which he had journeyed many times in former years on 
his old mare: Miss Vanhorn's sharp questions brought 
out what he knew, and gave him also the grateful sen- 
sation of imparting valuable information. He now^ ap- 
peared quite collected and sensible. He mentioned, after 
a w^hile, that an orchid grew in these very woods at some 
distance up the mountain — an orchid which was rare. 
Miss Vanhorn had never seen that particular orchid iu 
its wild state ; a flush rose in her cheek. 

14 



210 ANNE. 

' ' We can drive out to-morrow and look for it, grand- 
aunt," said Anne. 

"No," replied Miss Vanhorn, firmly; "that orchid 
must be found to-day, while Mr. — Mr. — " 

"Sloane," said the minister, afPably. 

" — while Mr. Stone is with you to iDoint out the exact 
locality. I desire you to go with him immediately, Anne. 
this is a matter of importance." 

"It is about two miles up the mountain," objected the 
missionary, loath to leave the festival. 

' ' Anne is not afraid of two short miles," replied the old 
woman, inflexibly. "And as for yourself, Mr. Doane, 
no doubt you will be glad to abandon this scene of idle 
frivolity." And then the Reverend Ezra, a little startled 
by this view of the case, yielded, and sought his hat and 
cane. 

This conversation had taken place at one side. Mr. 
Dexter, however, talking ceremoniously with old Mrs. 
Bannert, overheard it, and immediately thought of a plan 
by which it might be made available for his own purposes. 
The picnic had not given him much satisfaction so far; it 
had been too languid. With all his effort, he could not 
quite enter into the continuous indolence of Caryl's. 
True, he had taken Anne from Heathcote, thus checking 
for the moment that gentleman's lazy supremacy, at least 
in one quarter ; but there were other quarters, and Heath 
cote was now occupying the one which Dexter himself 
coveted most of all, namely, the seat next to Rachel Ban- 
nert. Rachel was a widovv^, and uncomfortably depend- 
ent upon her mother-in-law. The elder Mrs. Bannert was 
sharp-eyed as a hawk, wise as a serpent, and obstinate as 
a hedge-hog ; Rachel as soft-voiced and soft-breasted as a 
dove ; yet the latter intended to have, and did in the end 
have, the Bannert estate, and in the mean time she 
"shared her mother-in-law's home." There were vary- 
ing opinions as to the delights of that home. 

Dexter, fretted by Heathcote's unbroken conversation 
with Rachel, and weary of the long inaction of the morn- 
ing, now proposed that they should all go in search of the 
orchid ; his idea was that at least it would break up exist- 



ANNE. 211 

ing proximities, and give them all something" to do. 
Lunch had been prolonged to the utmost extent of its 
vitality, and the participants were in the state of nerve- 
less leaves in Indian summer, ready to float away on the 
first breeze. They strolled off, therefore, all save the eld- 
er ladies, through the wood, led by the delighted Ezra, 
who had that " God-bless-you-all-my-friends" air with 
which many worthy people are afflicted. The appar- 
ent self-effacement effected by good-breeding, even in the 
wicked, is certainly more agreeable to an ordinary world 
than the unconscious egotism of a large class of the good. 

After a quarter of an hour the woodman's trail they 
were following turned and went up the mountain-side. 
No one save Anne and the missionary had the slightest 
intention of walking two miles to look for a flower, but 
tliey were willing to stroll on for a while. They came 
to the main road, and crossed it, making many objections 
to its being there, with its commonplace daylight, after 
the shade, flickering sunbeams, and vague green vistas 
of the forest. But on this road, in the dust, a travelling 
harp-player was trudging along, accompanied by a wizen- 
ed little boy and a still more wizened monkey. 

' ' Let us carry them off into the deepest woods, and 
have a dance,"' said Isabel. " We will be nymphs and 
dryades, and all sorts of woodland things." 

It is difficult to dance on uneven ground, in the middle 
of the day, to the sound of an untuned old harp, and a 
violin held upside down, and scraped by a melancholy 
boy. But Isabel had her way, or rather took it, and they 
all set off somewhat vaguely for "the deepest woods," 
leaving the woodman's path, and following another 
track, which Isabel pronounced "such a dear little trail 
it must lead somewhere." The Reverend Ezra was dis- 
turbed. He thought he held them all under his own 
guidance, when, lo ! they were not only leaving him and 
his orchid without a word of excuse, but were actually 
departing with a wandering harpist to find a level spot 
on which to dance ! 

" I— I think that path leads only to an old quarry," he 
said, with a hesitating smile. 



212 ANNE. 

But no one paid any attention to him, save Anne, who 
had paused also, uncertain what to do. 

" We will get the orchid afterward. Miss Douglas," 
said Dexter. "I promise that you shall have it." 

"But Mr. Sloane," said Anne, glancing toward the de- 
serted missionary. 

"Come with us, dominie," said Dexter, with the ready 
good-nature that was one of his outAvard characteristics. 
It was a quick, tolerant good-nature, and seemed to be- 
long to his broad, strong frame. 

But the dominie had a dignity of his own, after all. 
When he realized that he was forsaken, he came for- 
ward and said quietly that he Avould go up the mountain 
alone and get the orchid, joining them at the main-road 
crossing on the way back. 

"As you please," said Dexter. "And I, for one, shall 
feel much indebted to you, sir, if you bring back the 
flower, because I have promised Miss Douglas that she 
should have it, and should be obliged to go for it my- 
self, ignorant as I am, were it not for your kindness." 

He raised his hat courteously, and went off with Anne 
to join the others, already out of sight. 

" I suppose he does not approve of the dancing," said 
the girl, looking back. 

But Dexter did not care whether he approved or disap- 
proved; he had already dismissed the dominie from his 
mind. 

The path took them to a deserted stone-quarry in the 
side of the hill. There was the usual yawning pit, floor- 
ed with broken jagged masses and chips of stone, the 
straight bare wall of rock above, and the forest greenery 
coming to the edge of the desolation on all sides, and 
leaning over to peep down. The quarrymen had camp- 
ed below, and the little open space where once their lodge 
of boughs had stood was selected by Isabel for the dan- 
cing floor. The harpist, a small old man clad in a grimy 
velveteen coat, played a waltz, to which the little Italian 
boy added a lagging accompaniment; the monkey, who 
seemed to have belonged to some defunct hand-organ, 
sat on a stump and surveyed the scene. They did not all 



ANNE. • 213 

dance, but Isabel succeeded in persuading a few to move 
through a quadrille whose figures she improvised for 
the occasion. But tlie scene was more picturesque when, 
after a time, the dull partners in coats were discarded, 
and the floating draperies danced by themselves, join- 
ing hands in a ring, and circling round and round with 
merry little motions which were charmingly pretty, like 
kittens at play. Then they made the boy sing, and he 
chanted a tune which had (musically) neither begin- 
ning nor end, but a useful quality of going on forever. 
But whatever he did, and whatever they gave him, made 
no difference in his settled melancholy, which the monk- 
ey's small face seemed to caricature. Then they danced 
again, and this time Dexter took part, while the other 
coated ones remained on the grass, smoking. It ended 
in his waltzing with them all in turn, and being over- 
whelmed with their praises, which, however, being lev- 
elled at the heads of the others by strongly implied com- 
parison, were not as valuable as they seemed. Dexter 
knew that he gained nothing by joining in that dance; 
but where there was something to do, he could not resist 
doing it. When the waltz was over, and the wandering 
musicians sent on their way with a lavish reward of sil- 
ver, which the monkey had received cynically as it was 
placed piece by piece in his little paw, Isabel led off all 
the ladies "to explore the quarry," expressly forbidding 
the others to follow. With an air of great enjoyment 
in their freedom and solitude the floating draperies de- 
parted, and the smokers were left under the trees, con- 
tent, on their side also, to have half an hour of quiet. 
Mr. Peter Dane immediately and heartily yawned at full 
width, and was no longer particular as to the position 
of his legs. In truth, it was the incipient fatigue on the 
face of this distinguished widower which had induced Is- 
abel to lead off her exploring party ; for when a man is 
over fifty, nothing is more dangerous than to tire him. 
He never forgives it. 

Isabel led her band round to an ascent, steep but not 
long; her plan was to go up the hill through the wood, 
and appear on the top of the quarry, so many graceful 



214 ' ANNE. 

figures high in the air against the blue sky, for the indo 
lent smokers below to envy and admire. Isabel was a 
slender creature with a pale complexion ; the slight col- 
or produced by the exercise would be becoming. Rachel, 
who was dimpled, "never could climb"; her ''ankles" 
were ' ' not strong. " (And certainly they were very small 
ankles for such a weight of dimples.) The party now 
divided itself under these two leaders; those who werfe 
indolent staid with Rachel; those who were not afraid 
of exercise went with Isabel. A few went for amuse- 
ment, without motive ; among these was Anne. One went 
for wrath ; and this was Valeria Morle. 

It is hard for a neutral-faced girl with a fixed opinion 
of her own importance to learn the lesson of her real in- 
significance, when removed from the background of home, 
at a place like Caryl's. Valeria was there, mistakenly 
visiting an aunt for two weeks, and with the calm securi- 
ty of the country mind, she had mentally selected Ward 
Heathcote as her knight for the time being, and had be- 
stowed upon him in consequence several little speeches 
and smiles carefully calculated to produce an impression, 
to mean a great deal to any one who was watching. But 
Heathcote was not watching; the small well-regulated 
country smiles had about as much effect as the twitterings 
of a wren would have in a wood full of nightingales. 
Miss Morie could not understand it ; had they not slain 
their thousands, nay, ten thousands (young lady's com- 
putation), in Morleville ? She now went up the hill in 
silent wrath, glad to do something and to be away from 
Heathcote. Still, she could not help believing that he 
would miss her ; men had been known to be very much 
interested in girls, and yet make no sign for a long time. 
They watched them from a distance. In this case Va- 
leria was to have her hopes realized. She was to be 
watched, and from a distance. 

The eight who reached the summit sported gayly 
to and fro for a while, now near the edge, now back,, 
gathering flowers and throwing them over, calling down 
to the smokers, who lay and watched them, without, how- 
ever, any burning desire especially visible on their coun- 



AXXE. 215 

tenances to climb up and join them. Valeria, (vitli a 
stubborn determination to make herself in some way 
conspicuous, went to the edge of the cliif, and even 
leaned over ; she had one arm round a young tree, 
but half of her shoes (by no means small ones) were over 
the verge, and the breeze showed that they were. Anne 
saw it, and spoke to Isabel. 

"If she will do it, she will,'' answered Isabel; "and 
the more we notice her, the more she will persist. She is 
one of those dull girls intended by Nature to be always 
what is called sensible. And when one of tliose girls 
takes to making a fool of herself, her idiocy is colossal." 

But Isabel's philosophy did not relieve Anne's fear. 
She called to Valeria, warningly, ' ' You are very near the 
edge. Miss Morle ; wouldn't it be safer to step back a little ?" 

But Valeria would not. They were all noticing her 
at last. They should see how strong her nerves were, 
how firm her poise. The smokers below, too, were now 
observing her. She threw back her head, and hummed a 
little tune. If the edge did not crumble, she was, in 
truth, safe enough. To a person who is not dizzy, five 
inches of foot-hold is as safe as five yards. 

But — the edge did crumble. And suddenly. The 
group of T\'omen behind had the horror of seeing her 
sway, stagger, slip down, frantically writhe on the verge 
half an instant, and then, with an awful scream,' slide over 
out of sight, as her arm was wrenched from the little tree. 
Those below had seen it too. They sprang to their feet, 
and ran first forward, then round and up the hill be- 
hind. 

For she had not slipped far. The cliff jutted out slight- 
ly a short distance below the verge, and, by what seemed 
a miracle, the girl was held by this second edge. Eight 
inches beyond, the sheer precipice began, with the pile of 
broken stones sixty feet below. Anne was the first to 
discover this, reaching 'the verge as the girl sank out of 
sight ; the others, shuddering, put their hands over their 
eyes and clung together. 

"She has not fallen far," cried Anne, with a quick and 
burning excitement. "Lie still. Valeria," she called 



216 ANNE. 

down. "Close your eyes, and make yourself perfectly 
motionless; hardly breathe. We will save you yet." 

She took hold of the young tree to test its strength, at 
the same time speaking rapidly to the others. "By ly- 
ing down, and clasping that tree trunk with one arm, 
and then stretching over, I can just reach her hand, I 
think, and seize it. Do you see ? That is what I am go- 
ing to try to do. I can not tell how strong this tree is ; 
but — there is not a moment to lose. After I am down, 
and have her hand, do anything you think best to secure 
us. Either hold me yourselves or make ropes of your 
sacques and shawls. If help comes soon, we can save 
her." While still speaking, she threw herself down 
upon the edge, clasped one arm strongly round the tree 
trunk, and stretching down sideways, her head and 
shoulder over the verge, she succeeded in first touching, 
then clasping, the wrist of the girl below, who could not 
see her rescuer as she lay facing the precipice with closed 
eyes, helpless and inert. It was done, but only two girls' 
wrists as a link. 

Tlie others had caught hold of Anne as strongly as they 
could. 

"No," said Isabel, taking command excitedly; "one 
of you hold her firmly, and the rest clasp arms and form 
a chain, all sitting down, to that large tree in the rear. 
If the strain comes, throw yourselves toward the large 
tree." 

So they formed a chain. Isabel, looking over, saw 
that the girl below had clasped Anne's wrist with her own 
fingers also — a strong grasp, a death-grasp. If she slipped 
farther, Anne must slip too. 

All this had not taken two minutes — scarcely a min- 
ute and a half. They were now all motionless; they 
could hear the footsteps of the men hurrying up the hill 
behind, coming nearer and nearer. But how slow they 
were! How long! The men were exactly three min- 
utes, and it is safe to say that never in their lives had 
they rushed up a hill with such desperate haste and en- 
ergy. But — women expect wings. 

Heathcote and Dexter reached the summit first. There 



ANNE. 217 

they beheld five white-cheeked women, dressed in various 
dainty floating fabrics, and adorned with ferns and wild 
flowers, sitting on the ground, clasping each others' hands 
and arms. They formed a line, of which the woman at 
one end had her arm round a large tree, and the wo- 
man at the other round the body of a sixth, who was half 
over the cliff. A seventh and free person, Isabel, stood 
at the edge, her eyes fixed on the heavy form poised along 
the second verge below. No one spoke but Isabel. ' ' She 
has caught on something, and Anne is holding her," she 
explained, in quick although low tones, as if afraid to 
disturb even the air. But while she was speaking the 
two men had gone swiftly to the edge, at a little distance 
below the grouj), and noted the position themselves. 

"Let me — " began Dexter. 

' ' No, you are too heavy, '' answered Heathcote. ' ' You 
must hold me.'' 

"Yes," said Isabel. "Quick! quick!" A woman in 
a hurry would say " Quick !" to the very lightning. 

But if men are slow, they are sure. Heathcote stretch- 
ed himself down carefully on the other side of the little 
tree, but without touching it, that being Anne's chief sup- 
port, and bearing his full weight upon Dexter, w^ho in 
turn was held by the other men, who had now come up, 
he seized Valeria's arm firmly above Anne's hand, and 
told Anne to let go her hold. They were face to face ; 
Anne's forehead was suffused with red, owing to her 
cramped position. 

"I can not; she has grasped my wrist," she answered. 

' ' Let go, Miss Morle, " called Heathcote. ' ' I have you 
firmly; do you not feel my hand ?" 

But Valeria would not ; perhaps could not. 

"Some of you take hold of Miss Douglas, then," call- 
ed Heathcote to the men above, ' ' The girl below will 
not loosen her hold, and you will have to di'aw us all 
jp together." 

"Ready?" called the voices above, after an instant. 

"Ready," answered Heathcote. 

Then he felt himself drawn upw^ard slowly, an inch, 
two inches ; so did Anne, The two downward-stretched 



318 ANNE. 

arms tightened ; the one upward-lifted arm began to rise 
from the body to which it belonged. But what a weight 
for that one arm I Valeria was a large, heavy girl, with 
a ponderous weight of bone. In the position in which 
she lay, it seemed probable that her body might swing- 
over the edge, and almost wrench the arm from its socket 
by its Vv^eight. 

"Stop," said Heathcote, perceiving this. The men 
above paused. ' ' Are you afraid to support her for one 
instant alone, Anne ?" he asked. 

' ' No, " murmured Anne. Her eyes were blood-shot ; she 
saw him through a crimson cloud. 

"Keep me firmly," he called out, warningly, to Dexter. 
Then, letting go his first hold, he stretched down still 
farther, made a slight spring forward, and succeeded in 
grasping Valeria's waist. '' Noiv pull up, and quickly," 
he said, panting. 

And thus, together, Valeria firmly held by Heathcote, 
the two rescuers and the rescued were drawn safely up 
from danger to safe level again. Only a few feet, but 
all the difference between life and death. 

When the others looked down upon the now uncover- 
ed space, they saw that it was only the stump of a slen- 
der cedar sapling, a few inches in height, and t%vo little 
edges of rock standing up unevenly here and there, which 
had formed the parapet. A person might have tried all 
day, with an acrobat's net spread below for safety, to 
cling there, without success; Valeria had fallen at the 
one angle and in the one position which made it possi- 
ble. Two arms were strained, and that was all. 

Isabel was Avhite with nervous fear ; the others showed 
traces of tears. But the cause of all this anxiety and 
trouble, although entirely uninjured and not nervous (she 
had not seen herself), sat smiling upon them all in a sweet 
suflPering-martyr way, and finally went down the hill with 
masculine escort on each side — apotheosis not before at- 
tained. Will it be believed that this girl, fairly well ed- 
ucated and in her sober senses, was simpleton enough to 
say to Heathcote that evening, in a sentimental whisper, 
"How I wish that Miss Douglas had not touched me!" 



ANNE. 219 

There was faint moonlight, and the simpering expression 
of the neutral face filled him with astonishment. Dex- 
ter w^ould have understood : Dexter was accustomed to all 
varieties of women, even the Valeria variety : but Heath- 
cote was not. All he said, therefore, was, "Why ?" 

"Because then you alone would have saved me," mur- 
mured Valeria, sweetly. 

" If Miss Doug-las had not grasped you as she did, we 
might all have been too late," replied Heathcote, looking 
at her in wonder. 

"Ah, no; I did not slip farther. You w^ould have 
been in time," said the belle of Morleville, with what she 
considered a telling glance. And she actually convinced 
herself that she had made an impression. 

"I ought not to have done it, of course, Louisa," she 
said to her bosom-friend, in the privacy of her own room, 
after her return to Morleville; "but I really felt that he 
deserved at least that reward for his great devotion to 
me, poor fellow!" 

"And why couldn't you like him, after all, Valeria 
dear ?" urged Louisa, deeply interested, and not a little 
envious. 

' ' I could not — I could not, " replied Valeria, slowly and 
virtuously, shaking her head. "He had not the prin- 
ciples I require in a man. But — I felt sorry for him." 

Oh, ineffable Valerias ! w^hat would life be without jom ? 

Dexter had been the one to offer his arm to Anne w^hen 
she felt able to go down the hill. At the main-road cross- 
ing they found the Reverend Mr. Sloane faithfully sitting 
on a dusty bank, with the orchid in his hand, waiting for 
them. It seemed to Anne that a long and vague period 
of time had passed since they parted from him. But she 
was glad to get the orchid ; she knew that no slight ex- 
traneous affair, such as the saving of a life, would excuse 
the absence of that fiow^er. Rachel Bannert had chafed 
Heathcote's strained arm wntli her soft hands, and ar- 
ranged a sling for it made of her sash. She accompanied 
him back to the picnic ground. It was worth v^hile to 
have a strained arm. 

Miss Vanhorn considered that it was all nonsense, and 



220 ANNE. 

was inclined to reprove her niece. But she had the or- 
chid ; and when Dexter came up, and in a few strong 
words expressed his admiration for the young girl's cour- 
age, she changed her mind, and agreed with him, al- 
though regretting "the display." 

"Girls like that Morle should be manacled," she said. 

"And I, for one, congratulate myself that there was, 
as you call it, a display — a display of the finest resolu- 
tion I have ever seen in a young girl," said Dexter, warm- 
ly. ' ' Miss Douglas was not even sure that the little tree 
was firm ; and of course she could not tell how long it 
would take us to come." 

"They all assisted, I understand," said Miss Vanhorn, 
impassively. 

' ' They all assisted afterward. But not one of them 
would have taken her place. Miss Morle seized her 
wrist immediately, and with the grasp of a vise. They 
must inevitably have gone over together." 

"Well, well; that is enough, I think," said Miss Van- 
horn. "We will drive home now," she added, giving 
her orders as though both the carriage and its owner were 
her own property. 

When she had been assisted into her place, and Anne 
had taken her seat beside her, Heathcote, who had not 
spoken to his fellow-rescuer since they reached level 
ground, came forward to the carriage door, with his arm 
in its ribbon sling, and ofi'ered his hand. He said only a 
word or two; but, as his eyes met hers, Anne blushed— 
blushed suddenly and vividly. She was realizing for 
the first time how she must have looked to him, hanging 
in her cramped position, with crimson face and wild fall- 
ing hair. 



ANXE. 221 



Chapter XIII. 

"So on the tip of his subduing tongue 
All kinds of arguments and questions deep." 

— Shakspeare. 

" What is the use of so much talking ? Is not this wild rose sweet 
without a comment ?" — Hazlitt. 

Early the next morning Miss Vanliorn, accompanied 
by her niece, drove off on an all-day botanizing expedi- 
tion. Miss Vanhorn understood the worth of being miss- 
ed. At sunset she returned; and the girl she brought 
back with her was on the verge of despair. For the old 
woman had spent the hours in making her doubt herself 
in every possible way, besides covering her with ridicule 
concerning the occurrences of the day before. It was 
late when they entered the old ball-room, Anne looking 
newly youthful and painfully shy; as they crossed the 
floor she did not raise her eyes. Dexter was dancing 
with Rachel, whose soft arms were visible under her 
black gauze, encircled with bands of old gold. Anne was 
dressed in a thick white linen fabric (Miss Vanhorn hav- 
ing herself selected the dress and ordered her to wear it), 
and appeared more like a school-girl than ever. Miss 
Vanhorn, raising her eye-glass, had selected her position 
on entering, like a general on the field : Anne was placed 
next to Isabel on the wooden bench that ran round the 
room. And immediately Miss Varce seemed to have 
grown suddenly old. In addition, her blonde beauty 
was now seen to be heightened by art. Isabel herself did 
not dream of this. Hardly any woman, whose toilet is 
a study, can comprehend beauty in unattractive unfash- 
ionable attire. So she kept her seat unconsciously, sure 
of her Paris draperies, while the superb youth of Anne, 
heightened by the simplicity of the garb she wore, re- 
duced the other woman, at least in the eyes of all the 
men present, to the temporary rank of a faded wax doll. 



222 ANNE. 

Dexter soon came up and asked Anne to dance. She 
replied, in a low voice and without looking up, that she 
would rather not ; her arm was still painful. 

' ' Go, " said Miss Vanhorn, overhearing, ' ^ and do not be 
absurd about your arm. I dare say Miss Morle's aches 
quite as badly." She was almost always severe with her 
niece in Dexter's presence : could it have been that she 
wished to excite his sympathy ? 

Anne rose in silence ; they did not dance, but, after walk- 
ing up and down the room once or twice, went out on the 
piazza. The windows were open : it was the custom to sit 
here and look through at the dancers within. They sat 
down near a window. 

''I have not had an opportunity until now, Miss Doug- 
las, to tell you how deeply I have admired your wonderful 
courage," began Dexter. 

"Oh, pray do not speak of it," said Anne, with in- 
tense embarrassment. For Miss Vanhorn had harried 
her niece so successfully during the long day, that the girl 
really believed that she had overstepped not only the 
edge of the cliff, but the limits of modesty as well. 

"But I must, "said Dexter. "In the life I have lived, 
Miss Douglas, I have seen women of all classes, and sever- 
al times have been with women in moments of peril — on 
the i^lains during an Indian attack, at the mines after an 
explosion, and once on a sinking steamer. Only one 
sliowed anything like your quick courage of yesterday, 
and she was a mother who showed it for her child. You 
did your brave deed for a stranger; and you seem, to my 
eyes at least, hardly more than a child yourself. It is 
but another proof of the innate nobility of our human 
nature, aud I, an enthusiast in such matters, beg you to 
let me personally thank you for the privilege of seeing 
your noble act." He put out his hand, took hers, and 
pressed it cordially. 

It was a set speech, perhaps — Dexter made set speeches ; 
but it was cordial and sincere. Anne, much comforted 
by this view of her impulsive action, looked at him with 
thankfulness. This was different from Miss Vanhorn's 
idea of it ; different and better. 



ANNE. 223 

'' I once helped one of my little brothers, who had fall- 
en over a clifF, in much the same way," she said, with a 
little sigh of relief. ' ' I am glad you think it was ex- 
cusable." 

' ' Excusable ? It was superb, " said Dexter. ' ' And per- 
mit me to add, too, that I am a better judge of heroism 
than the people here, who belong, most of them, to a 
small, prejudiced, and I might say ignorant, class. They 
have no more idea of heroism, of anything broad and lib- 
eral, or of the country at large, than so many canary- 
birds born and bred in a cage. They ridicule the mere 
idea of being in earnest about anything in this ridiculous 
world. Yet the world is not so ridiculous as they think, 
and earnestness carries with it a tremendous weight some- 
times. All the gi^eat deeds of which we have record have 
been done by earnest beliefs and earnest enthusiasms, 
even though mistaken ones. It is easy enough, by care- 
fully abstaining from doing anything one's self, to main- 
tain the position of ridiculing the attempts of others ; but 
it is more than probable — in fact it is almost certain — that 
those very persons who ridicule and criticise could not 
themselves do the very least of those deeds, attain the very 
lowest of those successes, which aiford them so much en- 
tertainment in others." 

So spoke Dexter ; and not without a tinge of bitterness, 
which he disguised as scorn. A little of the indifference 
to outside opinion which characterized the very class of 
whom he spoke would have made him a contented, as he 
already was a successful, man. But there was a surface 
of personal vanity over his better qualities which led him 
to desire a tribute of universal liking; and this is the 
tribute the class referred to always refuses — to the person 
Avho appears to seek it. 

"But, in spite of ridicule, self -sacrifice is still hero- 
ic, faith in our humanity still beautiful, and courage 
still dear, to all hearts that have true nobility," he 
continued. Then it struck him that he was general- 
izing too much, feminine minds always preferring a 
personal application. "I would rather have a girl 
who was brave and truthful for my wife than the most 



224 ANNE. 

beautiful woman on earth," lie said, with the quick, 
sudden utterance he used when he wished to ai^pear im- 
pulsive. 

"But beautiful women can be truthful too," said Anne, 
viewing- the subject impartially, with no realization of 
any application to herself. 

"Can, but rarely are. I have, however, known — that 
is, I think I now know— o/ie," he added, with quiet em- 
phasis, coming round on another tack. 

"I hope you do," said Anne; "and more than one. 
Else your acquaintance must be limited." As she spoke, 
the music sounded forth within, and forgetting the sub- 
ject altogether, she turned with girlish interest to watch 
the dancers. 

Dexter almost laughed aloud to himself in his shad- 
owed corner, she was so unconscious. He had not 
thought her beautiful, save for the perfection of her 
youthful bloom ; but now he suddenly began to dis- 
cover the i^urity of her profile, and the graceful shape 
of her head, outlined against the lighted window. His 
taste, however, was not for youthful simplicity; he pre- 
ferred beauty more ripened, and heightened by art. 
Having lived among the Indians in reality, the true 
children of nature, he had none of those dreams of ideal 
perfection in a brown skin and in the wilderness which 
haunt the eyes of dwellers in cities, and mislead even 
the artist. To him Rachel in her black floating laces, 
and Helen Lorrington in her shimmering silks, were far 
more beautiful than an Indian girl in her calico skirt 
could possibly be. But — Anne was certainly very fair 
and sweet. 

"Of what were you thinking, Miss Douglas, during 
the minutes you hung suspended over that abyss ?" he 
asked, moving so that he could rest his head on his hand, 
and thus look at her more steadily. 

Ainie turned. For she always looked directly at the 
person who spoke to her, having none of those side glances, 
tableaux of sweeping eyelashes, and willful little motions 
which belong to most pretty girls. She turned. And 
now Dexter was surprised to see how she was blushing. 



ANNE. 225 

so deeply and slowly that it must have been physically 
painful. 

"She is beginning to be conscious of my manner at 
last," he said to himself, with self-gratulation. Then he 
added, in a lower voice, "7 was thinking only of you; 
and what a brutal sacrifice it would be if your life should 
be given for that other !" 

"Valeria is a good girl, I think," said Anne, re- 
covering herself, and answering as impersonally as 
though he had neither lowered his voice nor thrown 
any intensity into his eyes. "However, none of the 
ladies here approach Helen — Mrs. Lorrington ; and I 
am sure you agree with me in thinking so, Mr. Dex- 
ter." 

"You are loyal to your friend." 

' ' No one has been so kind to me ; I both love her and 
warmly admire her. How I hope she may come soon ! 
And when she does, as I can not help loving to be with 
her, I suppose I shall see a great deal more of you,'''' said 
the girl, smiling, and in her own mind addressing the 
long-devoted Knight-errant. 

"Shall you?" thought Dexter, not a little piqued by 
her readiness to yield him even to her friend. ' ' I will 
see that you do not long continue quite so indifferent," he 
added to himself, with determination. Then, in pursu- 
ance of this, he decided to go in and dance with some 
one else ; that should be a first step. 

"I believe I am engaged to Mrs. Bannert for the next 
dance," he said, regretfully. "Shall I take you in ?" 

"No; please let me stay here a while. My arm re- 
ally aches dully all the time, and the fresh air is plea- 
sant." 

' ' And if Miss Vanhorn should ask ?" 

"Tell her where I am." 

"I will," answered Dexter. And he fully intended to 
do it in any case. He liked, when she was not with him, 
to have Anne safely under her grandaunt's watchful vig- 
ilance, not exactly witli the spirit of the dog in the man- 
ger, but something like it. He was conscious, also, that 
he possessed the chaperon's especial favor, and he did not 



:;326 ANNE. 

intend to forfeit it ; he wished to use it for his own pur- 
I>oses. 

But Rachel marred his intention by crossing it with one 
of her own. 

Dexter admired Mrs. Bannert. He could not help it. 
When she took his arm, he was for the time being hers. 
She knew this, and being piqued by some neglect of Heath- 
cote's, she met the other man at the door, and made him 
think, without saying it, that she wished to be with him 
awhile on the moon-lit piazza; for Heathcote was there. 
Dexter obeyed. And thus it happened that Miss Van- 
horn was not told at all ; but supposing that her niece was 
still with the escort she had herself selected, the fine-look- 
ing owner of mines and mills, the future Senator, the 
"type of American success," she rested mistakenly con- 
tent, and spent the time agreeably in making old Mrs. 
Bannert's life a temporary fever by relating to her in de- 
tail some old buried scandals respecting the departed 
Bannert, pretending to have forgotten entirely the chief 
actor's name. 

In the mean while Heathcote, sauntering along the pi- 
azza in his turn, came upon Anne sitting alone by the 
window, and dropped into the vacant place beside her. 
He said a few words, playing with the fringe of Rachel's 
sash, which he still wore, "her colors, "some one remark- 
ed, but made no allusion to the occurrences of the previous 
day. What he said was unimportant, but he looked at 
her rather steadily, and she was conscious of his glance. 
In truth, he was merely noting the effect of her head and 
throat against the lighted window, as Dexter had done, 
the outline being very distinct and lovely, a j)rofile framed 
in light ; but she thought it was something different. A 
painful timidity again seized her ; instead of blushing, she 
turned pale, and with difficulty answered clearly. " JZc 
does not praise me," she thought. '^ He does not say 
that what I did yesterday was greater than anything 
among Indians and mines and on sinking steamers. He 
is laughing at me. Grandaunt was right, and no doubt 
he thinks me a bold, forward girl who tried to make a 
sensation." 




HE WAS MERELY NOTING THE EFFECT. 



ANNE. 227 

Heathcote made another unimportant remark, but 
Anne, being now nervously sensitive, took it as having a 
second meaning". She turned her head away to hide the 
burning tears that were rising; but although unshed, 
Heathcote saw them. His observation was instantane- 
ous where women were concerned ; not so much active 
as intuitive. He had no idea what was the matter with 
her : this was the second inexplicable appearance of tears. 
But it would take more than such little damp occasions^ 
to disconcert him ; and rather at random, but with sj^mpa- 
thy and even tenderness in his voice, he said, soothingly, 
" Do not mind it," "it" of course representing whatever 
she pleased. Then, as the drops fell, "Why, you poor 
child, you are really in trouble," he said, taking her hand 
and holding it in his. Then, after a moment: " I do not 
know, of course, what it is that distresses you, but I too, 
although ignorant, am distressed by it also. For since 
yesterday, Anne, you have occupied a place in my mem- 
ory which will never give you up. You will be an image 
there forever." 

It was not much, after all; most improbable was it that 
any of those who saw her risk her life that day would soon 
forget her. Yet there was something in the glance of his 
eye and in the clasp of his hand that soothed Anne inex- 
pressibly. She never again cared what people thought 
of her "boyish freak" (so Miss Vanhorn termed it), but 
laid the whole memory away, embalmed shyly in sweet 
odors forever. 

Other persons now came in sight. "Shall we walk ?" 
said Heathcote. They rose ; she took his arm. He did 
not lead her out to the shadowed path below the piazza ; 
they remained all the time among the lights and passing- 
strollers. Their conversation was inconclusive and un- 
momentous, without a tinge of novel interest or brill- 
iancy ; not one sentence would have been Avorth repeat- 
ing. Yet such as it was, with its few words and many 
silences which the man of the world did not exert him- 
self to break, it seemed to establish a closer acquaintance 
between them than eloquence could have done. At least 
it was so with Anne, although she did not define it. 



228 ANNE. 

Heathcote had no need to define ; it was an old story with 
him. 

As the second dance ended, he took her round, as 
though hy chance, to the other side of the piazza, wliere 
he knew Rachel was sitting with Mr. Dexter. Here he 
skillfully changed companions, simply by one or two of 
his glances. For Rachel undei'stood from them that he 
was bored, repentant, and lonely; and once convinced 
of this, she immediately executed the manoeuvre herself, 
with the woman's usual means of natural little phrases 
and changes of position, Heathcote meanwhile standing 
passive until it was all done. Heathcote generally stood 
passive. But Dexter often had the appearance of exert- 
ing himself and arranging things. 

Thus it happened that Miss Vanhorn saw Anne re-enter 
with the same escort who had taken her forth. 

Another week passed, and another. Various scenes in 
the little dramas played by the different persons x)resent 
followed each other with more or less notice, more or 
less success. One side of Dexter's nature was comx^lete- 
ly fascinated with Rachel Bannert — with her beauty, 
which a saint-worshipper would have denied, although 
why saintliness should be a matter of blonde hair re- 
mains undiscovered ; with her dress and grace of manner ; 
with her undoubted position in that narrow circle which 
he wished to enter even while condemning — perhaps 
merely to conquer it and turn away again. His rival with 
Rachel was Heathcote ; he had discovered that. He was 
conscious that he detested Heathcote. While thus secret- 
ly interested in Rachel, he yet found time, however, to 
give a portion of each day to Anne ; he did this partly 
from policy and x^artly from jealous annoyance. For 
here too he found the other man. Heathcote, in truth, 
seemed to be ainusing himself in much the same way. If 
Dexter waltzed with Rachel, Heathcote offered his arm to 
Anne and took her out on the piazza ; if Dexter walked 
with Anne there, Heathcote took Rachel into the rose- 
scented dusky garden. But Dexter had Miss Vanhorn \s 
favor, if that w^as anything. She went to drive with 
him and took Anne; she allowed him to accompany them 



ANNE. 229 

on their botanizing expeditions ; she talked to him, and 
even listened to his descriptions of his life and adventures. 
In reality she cared no more for him than for a Choctaw ; 
no more for his life than for that of Robinson Crusoe. 
But he was a rich man, and he would do for Anne, who 
was not a Yanhorn, but merely a Douglas. He had 
showed some liking for the girl ; the affair should be en- 
couraged and clinched. She, Katharine Vanhorn, would 
clinch it. He must be a very different man from the di- 
agnosis she had made up of him if he did not yield to her 
clinching. 

During these weeks, therefore, there had been many 
long conversations between Anne and Mr, Dexter; they 
had talked on many subjects appropriate to the occasion 
— Dexter was always appropriate. He had quoted pages 
of poetry, and he quoted well. He had, like Othello, re- 
lated his adventures, and they were thrilling and true. 
Then, when more sure of her, he had turned the conver- 
sation upon herself. It is a fascinating subject— one's self ! 
Anne touched it timidly here and there, but, never having 
had the habit or even the knowledge of self -analysis, she 
was more uncomfortable than pleased, after all, and in- 
clined mentally to run away. She did not know herself 
whether she had more imagination than timidity, wheth- 
er conscientiousness was more developed in her than 
ideality, or whether, if obliged to choose between saving 
the life of a brother or a husband, she would choose the 
former or the latter. Dexter had to drag her opinions of 
her own character from her almost by main strength. 
But he persisted. He had never known an imaginative 
young girl at the age when all things are problems to her 
who was not secretly, often openly, fascinated by a sym- 
pathetic research into her own timid little characteris- 
tics, opening like buds within her one by one. Dexter's 
theory was correct, his rule a good one probably in nine- 
ty-nine cases out of a hundred; only — Anne was the 
hundredth. She began to be afraid of him as he came 
toward her, kind, smiling, with his invisible air of suc- 
cess about him, ready for one of their long conversations. 
Yet certainly he was as pleasant a companion as a some- 



230 ANNE. 

what lonely young girl, isolated at a place like Caryl's, 
could wisli for ; at least that is what every one would 
have said. 

During these weeks there had been no long talks with 
Heathcote. Miss Vanhorn did not ask him to accompany 
them to the woods ; she did not utter to him the initiative 
word in passing which gives the opportunity. Still, there 
had been chance meetings and chance words, of course — 
five-minute strolls on the piazza, five-minute looks at the 
sunset or at the stars, in the pauses between the dances. 
But where Heathcote took a minute, Dexter had, if he 
chose, an hour. 

Although in one way now so idle, Anne seemed to her- 
self never to have been so busy before. Miss Vanhorn 
kept her at work upon plants through a large portion of 
each day, and required her to be promptly ready upon 
all other occasions. She barely found time to write to 
Miss Lois, who was spending the summer in a state be- 
twixt anger and joy, veering one way by reason, the oth- 
er by wrath, yet unable to refrain entirely from satisfac- 
tion over the new clothes for the children which Miss 
Vanhorn's money had enabled her to buy. The allow- 
ance was paid in advance ; and it made Anne light-heart- 
ed whenever she thought, as she did daily, of the com- 
forts it gave to those she loved. To East, Anne wrote in 
the early morning, her only free time. East was now 
on the island, but he was to go in a few days. This 
statement, continually repeated, like lawyers' notices of 
sales postponed from date to date, had lasted all summer, 
and still lasted. He had written to Anne as usual, until 
Miss Vanhorn, although without naming him, had tartly 
forbidden "so many letters." Then Anne asked him to 
write less frequently, and he obeyed. She, however, con- 
tinued to write herself as before, describing her life at 
Caryl's, while he answered (as often as he was allowed), 
telling of his j)lans, and complaining that they were to be 
separated so long. But he was going to the far West, 
and there he should soon win a home for her. He count- 
ed the days till that happy time. 

And then Anne would sit and dream of the island : she 



ANNE. 231 

saw the old house, Rast, and the children, Miss Lois's thin, 
energetic face, the blue Straits, the white fort, and the 
little inclosure on the heights where were the two graves. 
She closed her eyes and heard their voices ; she told them 
all she hoped. Only this one more winter, and then she 
could see them again, send them help, and perhaps have 
one of the children with her. And then, the year after— 
But here Miss Vanhorn's voice calling her name broke 
the vision, and with a sigh she returned to Caryl's again, 

Helen's letters had ceased; but Anne jotted down a 
faithful record of the events of the days for her inspec- 
tion when she came. Rumors varied at Carjd's respect- 
ing Mrs. Lorrington. Now her grandfather had died, 
and left her everything; and now he had miraculously 
recovered, and deeded his fortune to charitable institu- 
tions. Now he had existed without nourishment for 
weeks, and now he had the appetite of ten, and exhibited 
the capabilities of a second Methuselah. But in the mean 
time Helen was still absent. Under these circumstances, 
Anne, if she had been older, and desirous, might have col- 
lected voluminous ex^^ressions of opinion as to the qual- 
ities, beauty, and history, past and present, of the absent 
one from her dearest friends on earth. But the dearest 
friends on earth had not the habit of talking to this young 
girl as a companion and equal ; to them she was simply 
that ''sweet child," that "dear fresh-faced school-girl," 
to whom they confided only amiable platitudes. So 
Anne continued to hold fast undisturbed her belief in her 
beautiful Helen — that strong, grateful, reverent feeling 
which a young girl often cherishes for an older woman 
who is kind to her. 

One still, hazy morning Miss Vanhorn announced her 
programme for the day. She intended to drive over to 
the county toAvn, and Anne was to go with her six miles 
of the distance, and be left at a certain glen, where there 
was a country saw-mill. They had been there together 
several times, and had made acquaintance with the saw- 
miller, his wife, and his brood of white-headed children. 
The object of the present visit was a certain fern — the 
Camptosorus, or walking-leaf — which Miss Vanhorn had 



232 ANNE. 

recently learned grew there, or at least had grown there 
within the memory of living botanists. That was enough. 
Anne was to search for the plant unflinchingly (the pres- 
ence of the mill family being a sufficient protection) 
throughout the entire day, and be in waiting at the main- 
road crossing at sunset, when her grandaunt's carriage 
would stop on its return home. In order that there 
might be no mistake as to the time, she was allowed to 
wear one of Miss Vanhorn's watches. There were four- 
teen of them, all heirlooms, all either wildly too fast in 
their motions or hopelessly too slow, so that the gift was 
an embarrassing one. Anne knew that if she relied upon 
the one intrusted to her care, she would be obliged to 
spend about three hours at the crossing to allow for the 
variations in one direction or the other which might er- 
ratically attack it during the day. But her hope lay in 
the saw-miller's bright-faced little Yankee clock. At 
their early breakfast she prepared a lunch for herself in 
a small basket, and before CaryFs had fairly awakened, 
the old coupe rolled away from the door, bearing aunt 
and niece into the green country. When they reached 
the wooded hills at the end of the six miles, Anne de- 
scended with her basket, her digging trowel, and her tin 
plant case. She was to go over every inch of the saw- 
miller's ravine, and find that fern, living or dead. Miss 
Vanhorn said this, and she meant the X3lant; but it sound- 
ed as if she meant Anne. With renewed warnings as 
to care and diligence, she drove on, and Anne was left 
alone. It was ten o'clock, and a breathless August day. 
She hastened up the little path toward the saw-mill, glad 
to enter the w^ood and escape the heat of the sun. She 
now walked more slowly, and looked right and left for 
the fern; it was not there, probably, so near the light, 
but she had conscientiously determined to lose no inch 
of the allotted ground. Owing to this slow search, halt 
an hour had passed when she reached the mill. She had 
perceived for some time that it was not in motion ; tliero 
was no hum of the saw, no harsh cry of the rent boards : 
she said to herself that the miller was getting a great log 
in place on the little cart to be drawn up the tramway, 



ANNE. 233 

But when she reached the spot, the miller was not there \ 
the mill was closed, and only the peculiar fresh odor of the 
logs recently sawn asunder told that but a short time be- 
fore the saw had been in motion. She went on to the 
door of the little house, and knocked ; no one answered. 
Standing on tiptoe, she peeped in through the low win- 
dow, and saw that the rooms were empty, and in that 
.shining- order that betokens the housewife's absence. Re- 
turning to the mill, she walked up the tramway; a bit 
of paper, for the information of chance customers, was 
pinned to the latch: "All hands gone to the sirkus. Home 
at sunset. " She sat down, took off her straw hat, and con- 
sidered what to do. 

Three hundred and sixty-four days of that year Saw- 
miller Pike, his wife, his four children, and his hired 
man, one or all of them, were on that spot ; their one ab- 
sence chance decreed should be on this particular August 
Thursday when Anne Douglas came there to spend the 
day. She was not afraid ; it was a quiet rural neighbor- 
hood without beggars or tramps. Her gran daunt would 
not return until sunset. She decided to look for the fern, 
and if she found it within an hour or two, to walk home, 
and send a boy back on horseback to wait for Miss Van- 
horn. If she did not find it before afternoon, she would 
wait for the carriage, according to agreement. Hanging 
her basket and shawl on a tree branch near the mill, she 
entered the ravine, and was soon hidden in its green re- 
cesses. Up and down, up and down the steep rocky 
sides she climbed, her tin case swinging from her shoul- 
der, her trowel in her belt; she neglected no spot, and 
her track, if it had been visible, would have shown itself 
almost as regular as the web of the geometric spider. Up 
and down, up and down, from the head of the ravine to 
its foot on one side : nothing. It seemed to her that she 
had seen the fronds and curled crosiers of a thousand 
ferns. Her eyes were tired, and she threw herself down 
on a mossy bank not far from the mill to rest a moment. 
There was no use in looking at the watch ; still, she did it, 
and decided that it was either half past eleven or hali 
past three. The remaining side of the ravine gazed at 



234 ANNE. 

her steadily ; she knew that she must clamber over every 
inch of tliose rocks also. She sighed, bathed her flushed 
cheeks in the brook, took down her hair, and braided it 
in two long school-girl braids, which hung down below 
her waist ; then she tied her straw hat to a branch, pinned 
her neck-tie on the brim, took off her linen cuffs, and 
laid them within together with her gloves, and leaving 
the tin plant case and the trowel on the bank, started on 
her search. Up and down, up and down, peering into 
every cranny, standing on next to nothing, swinging 
herself from rock to rock •, making acquaintance with sev- 
eral Yerj unpleasant rock spiders, and hastily construct- 
ing bridges for them of small twigs, so that they could 
cross from her skirt to their home ledge in safety ; find- 
ing a trickling spring, and drinking from it ; now half 
way down the ravine, now three-quarters; and still no 
walking-leaf. She sat down on a jutting crag to take 
breath an instant, and watched a bird on a tree branch 
near by. He was one of those little brown songsters that 
sing as follows : 



s^E^S^^Si^ 



'^'^~^- 



Seeing her watching him, he now chanted his little an 
them in his best style. 

"Very well," said Anne, aloud. 

"Oh no; only so-so," said a voice below. She look 
3d down, startled It was Ward Heathcote. 



ANNE. 235 



Chapter XIV. 

"From beginning to end it was all undeniable nonsense, busS 2£ot 
necessarily the worse for that." — Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

Heathcote was sitting under a tree by the broo"k« 
side, as though he had never been anywhere else. 

' ' When did you come ?" said Anne, looking down from 
her perch. 

"Fifteen minutes or so ago," he answered, looking 
up from his couch. 

^^Why did you come ?" 

"To see you, of course." 

•' No ; I can not believe that. The day is too warm." 

"You, at any rate, look cool enough." 

"It is cool up here among the rock^ ; but it must be 
intense out on the high-road." 

"I did not come by the high-road." 

" How, then, did you come ?" 

"Across the fields." 

"Why?" 

"Miss Douglas, were you born in New Hampshire's 
As I can not call all this information you require up 
hill, I shall be obliged to come up myself." 

As he rose, Anne saw that he was laden with her din- 
ner basket and shawl, her plant case and trowel, and 
her straw hat and its contents, which he balanced with 
exaggerated care. " Oh, leave them all there," she call- 
ed down, laughingly. 

But no, Heathcote would not; he preferred to bring 
them all with him. When he reached her rock, he grave- 
ly delivered them into her hands, and took a seat beside 
her, fanning himself with his hat. 

"And now, how does it happen that you are here ?" re- 
peated Anne, i)lacing her possessions in different niches. 

' ' You insist ? Why not let it pass for chance ? No 1 
Well, then, by horseback to Powell's; horse loses shoe; 



236 ANNE. 

blacksmith's shop. Blacksmith talkative ; second custo 
raer that morning; old coupe, fat old coachman, and fat 
brown horse, who also loses shoe. Coachman talkative; 
tells all about it; blacksmith tells me; young lady left at 
saw-mill to be taken up on return. I, being acquainted 
with said saw-mill and young lady, come across by lane 
through the fields. Find a dinner basket ; look in ; con- 
clude to bring it on. Find a small tin coffin, and bring 
that too. Find a hat, ditto. Hat contains — " 

" Never mind," said Anne, laughing. "But where is 
your horse ?" 

"Tied to a tree." 

" And what are you going to do ?" 

" At present, nothing. By-and-by, if you will permit 
it, I may — smoke a cigar." 

"I have no idea what time it is," said Anne, after a 
pause, while Heathcote, finding a comfortable place with 
his back against the rocks, seemed disposed to enjoy one 
of his seasons of silence. 

He drew out his watch, and without looking at it held 
it toward her. "You need not tell; I do not want to 
know," he said. 

"In spite of that, I feel it to be my duty to announce 
that it is nearly half past twelve; you may still reach 
home in time for lunch." 

"Thanks. I know what I shall have for lunch." 

"What?" 

' ' One small biscuit, three slices of cake, one long cor- 
pulent pickle, and an apple." 

"You have left nothing for me," said Anne, laughing 
over this disclosure of the contents of her basket. 

"On the contrary, I have brought you something," 
said Heathcote, gravely producing two potatoes uncook 
ed, a pinch of salt in paper, and a quarter of a loaf oi 
bread, from the pockets of his blue flannel coat. 

Anne burst into a peal of laughter, and the last shad 
ow of timidity vanished. Heathcote seemed for the mo 
ment as young as East himself. 

"Where have you been foraging?" she said. 

" Foraging ? I beg your pardon ; nothing of the kind 



ANNE. 237 

I bouglit these supplies regularly from a farmer's -wife, 
and paid for them in the coin of the land. I remarked 
to her that I should be out all day, and hated hunger ; it 
was so sanguinary." 

"But you will not be out all day." 
■ "Until eight minutes of six, precisely ; that is the time 
I have selected for my return." Then, seeing that she 
looked grave, he dropped into his usual manner, and add- 
ed, "Of course. Miss Douglas, I shall only remain a little 
while — until the noon heat is over. You are looking for 
a rare flower, I believe ?" 

"A fern." 

"What is the color of its flower ?" 

Anne laughed again. ' ' A fern has no flower, " she ex- 
plained. ' ' See, it is like this." And plucking a slender 
leaf, she described the wished-for plant minutely. "It 
stretches out its long tip — so ; touches the earth — so ; puts 
down a new little root from the leaf's end — so ; and then 
starts on again — so." 

" In a series of little green leaps ?" 

"Yes." 

Heathcote knew as much of ferns as he did of saurians; 
but no subject was too remote for him when he chose to 
appear interested. He now chose to appear so, and they 
talked of ferns for some time. Then Anne said that she 
must finish the remaining quarter of the ravine. Heath- 
cote decided to smoke a cigar where he was first; then 
he v/ould join her. 

But when, half an hour later, she came into view again 
beside the brook below him, apparently he had not 
stirred. "Found it ?" he said. 

"No." 

"There is a sort of thin, consumptive, beggarly little 
leaf up here which looks something like your description. 
Shall I bring him down ?" 

"No, no ; do not touch it," she answered, springing u^j 
the rocks toward him. "If it should be ! But — I don't 
believe you know." 

But he did know ; for it was there. Very small and 
slender, creeping close to the rocks in the shyest way^ 



238 ANNE. 

half lost in the deep moss ; but there ! Heathcote had not 
moved; but the shrmking little plant happened to have 
placed itself exactly on a line with his idle eyes. 

" It is unfair that you should find it without stirring, 
while I have had such a hard climb all in vain," said 
Anne, carefully taking up the little plant, with sufficient 
earth and moss to keep it comfortable. 

" Itis ever so," replied her companion, lazily, watching 
the spirals of cigar smoke above his head : ' ' wait, and in 
time everything will come to you. If not in this world, 
then certainly in the next, which is the world I have 
selected for my own best efforts." 

When the fern was properly bedded in the tin case, 
and the cover closed, Anne sat down for a moment to rest. 

" When shall we have lunch ?" asked the smoker. 

''Your 

"Yes; I am bitterly hungry." 

"But you said you were only going to stay a short time. " 

"Half an hour longer." 

"What time is it now ?" 

"I have no idea." 

"You can look." 

" I refuse to look. Amiability has its limit." 

' ' I had intended to walk home, if I found the fern in 
time," said Anne. 

"Ah? But I think w^e are going to have a storm. 
Probably a thunder-storm," said Heathcote, languidly. 

' ' How do you know ? And — what shall we do ?" 

"I know, because I have been w^atching that little 
patch of sky up there. As to what we shall do — we can 
try the mill." 

They rose as he spoke. Anne took the plant case. ' ' I 
vrill carry this," she said; "the w^alking-leaf must bo 
humored." 

' ' So long as I have the dinner basket I remain sweet' 
tempered," answered Heathcote. 

She put on her hat, but her neck-tie and cuffs were gone. 

"I have them safe," he said. "They are with the 
potatoes." 

Eeaching the mill, they tried the door, but found it so- 



ANNE. 239 

curely fastened. They tried the house door and windows, 
with the same result. Unless they broke several panes 
of glass they could not gain entrance, and even then it 
was a question whether Heathcote would be able to thrust 
inward the strong oaken stick above, which held the sash 
down. 

"Do mount your horse and ride home," urged Anne, 
' ' I shall be safe here, and in danger of nothing worse 
than a summer shower. I will go back in the ravine and 
find a beech-tree. Its close, strong little leaves will keep 
off the rain almost entirely. Why should both of us be 
drenched ?" 

" Neither of us shall be. Come with me, and quickly, 
for the storm is close upon us. There is a little cave, or 
rather hollow in the rock, not far above the road ; I think 
it will shelter us. I, for one, have no desire to be out in 
your 'summer shower,' and ride home to Caryl's after- 
ward in a limp, blue-stained condition." 

"How long will it take us to reach this cave?" said 
Anne, hesitating. 

" Three minutes, perhaiDS." 

"I suppose we had better go, then," she said, slow- 
ly. "But pray do not take those things. They will all 
have to be brought down again." 

"They shall be," said Heathcote, leading the way to- 
ward the road. 

It was not a long climb, but in some places the ascent 
was steep. A little path was their guide to the " cave"— - 
a hollow in the ledge, which the boys of the neighbor- 
hood considered quite a fortress, a bandit's retreat. A 
rude ladder formed the front steps of their rock nest, and 
Anne was soon ensconced within, her gi'ay shawl making 
a carpet for them both. The cave was about seven feet 
in depth, and four or five in breadth ; the rock roof was 
high above their heads. Behind there was a dark, deep 
little recess, blackened with smoke, which the boys had 
evidently used as an oven. The side of the hill jutted 
out slightly above them, and this, rather than the seven 
feet of depth possessed by the niche, made it possible that 
they would escape the rain. 



240 ANNE. 

The cave was in an angle of the hill. From Heath- 
cote's side part of the main road could be seen, and the 
saw-mill ; but Anne, facing the other way, saw only the 
fields and forest, the sparkle of the little mill-stream, and 
the calmer gleam of the river. One half of the sky was 
of the deepest blue, one half of the expanse of field and 
forest golden in the sunshine. Over the other half hung 
a cloud and a shadow of deep purple-black, v/hich were 
advancing rapidly, although there was not, where the 
two gazers sat, so much as a breath of stirred air. 

"It will soon be here," said Heathcote. "See that 
white line across the forest ? That is the wind turning 
over the leaves. In the fields it makes the grain look 
suddenly gray as it is bent forward." 

"I should not have known it was the wind," said 
Anne. "I have only seen storms on the water." 

"That yellow line is the Heliport plank-road; all the 
dust is whirling. Are you afraid of lightning ?" 

"Shall we have it?" 

"Yes; here it is." And, with a flash, the wind was 
upon them. A cloud of dust rose from the road below ; 
they bent their heads until the whirlwind had passed by 
on its wild career down the valley. When, laughing 
and breathless, Anne opened her eyes again, her hair, 
swept out of its loose braids, was in a wild mass round 
her shoulders, and she barely saved her straw hat, which 
was starting out to follow the whirlwind. And now 
the lightning was vivid and beautiful, cutting the blue- 
black clouds with fierce golden darts, while the thun- 
der followed, peal after peal, until the hill itself seemed 
to tremble. A moment later came the rain, hiding both 
the valley and sky with its thick gray veil : they were 
shut in. 

As Heathcote had thought, the drops only grazed their 
doorway. They moved slightly back from the entrance ; 
he took off his hat, hung it on a rock knob, and inquired 
meekly if they might not noiv have lunch. Anne, who, 
between the peals, had been endeavoring to recapture her 
hair, and had now one long thick braid in comparative 
order, smiled, and advised him to stay his hunger with 



ANNE. 241 

the provisions in his own pockets. He took them out and 
looked at them. 

' ' If the boys who use this hole for an oven have left 
us some wood, we will roast and toast these, and have a 
hot lunch yet," he said, stretching back to search. Light- 
ing a match, he examined the hole ; the draught that blew 
the flame proved that it had an outlet above. ' ' Boys know 
something, after all. And here is their wood-pile," he 
said, showing Anne, by the light of a second match, a 
cranny in the rock at one side neatly filled with small 
sticks and twigs. The rain fell in a thick dark sheet 
outside straight dow^n from the sky to the ground with a 
low rushing sound. In a minute or two a tiny blue flame 
flickered on their miniature hearth, went out, started 
again, turned golden, caught at the twigs, and grew at 
last into a brisk little fire. Heathcote, leaning on his el- 
bow, his hands and cuffs grimed, watched and tended it 
carefully. He next cut his quarter loaf into slices, and 
toasted — or rather heated — them on the point of his knife- 
blade ; he put his two potatoes under hot ashes, like two 
Indian mounds, arranged his pinch of salt ceremonious- 
ly upon a stone, and then announced that he had pre- 
pared a meal to which all persons present were gener- 
ously invited, with a polite unconsciousness as to any 
covered baskets they might have in their possession, or 
the supposed contents of said receptacles. Anne, having 
finished the other long braid and thrown it behind her, 
was now endeavoring to wash her hands in the rain. 
In this attempt Heathcote joined her, but only succeeded 
in broadening the grimy spots. The girl's neck-tie and 
cuffs were still confiscated. She was aware that a linen 
collar, fastened only with a white pin, is not what custom 
requires at the base of a chin, and that wrists bare for 
three inches above the hand are considered indecorous. 
At least in the morning, certain qualities in evening air 
inaking the same exposure, even to a much greater ex- 
tent, quite difi'erent. But she was not much troubled ; isl- 
and life had made her indifferent even to these enormities. 

The rain did not swerve from its work ; it came down 
steadily; thev could not see through the swift lead-color- 

16 



242 ANNE. 

ed drops. But, within, the little cave was cheery in the 
fire-light, and the toasted bread had an appetizing fra- 
grance. At least Heathcote said so ; Anne thought it was 
burned. She opened her basket, and they divided the 
contents impartially — half a biscuit, half a pickle, half 
an apple, and a slice and a half of cake for each. The po- 
tatoes were hardly warmed through, but Heathcote in- 
sisted that they should be tasted, ' ' in order not to wicked- 
ly waste the salt." Being really hungry, they finished 
everything, he stoutly refusing to give up even a crumb of 
his last half -slice of cake, which Anne begged for on the 
plea of being still in school. By this time they were full 
of merriment, laughing and paying no attention to what 
they said, talking nonsense and enjoying it. Anne's 
cheeks glowed, her eyes were bright as stars, her brown 
hair, more loosely fastened than usual, lay in little 
waves round her face ; her beautiful arched lips were 
half the time parted in laughter, and her rounded arms 
and hands seemed to fall into charming poses of their 
own, w^hichever way she turned. 

About three o'clock the veil of rain grew less dense; 
they could see the fields again ; from where he sat, Heath- 
cote could see the road and the mill. 

"Can we not go now ?" said Anne. 

' ' By no means, unless you covet the drenching we 
have taken so much care to escai3e. But by four I think 
it will be over." He lit a cigar, and leaning back 
against the rock, said, "Tell me some more about that 
island; about the dogs and the'ice." 

"No," said Anne, coloring a little; "you are laugh- 
ing at me. I shall tell you no more." 

Then he demanded autocratically that she should sing. 
"I choose the song you sang on New-Year's night; the 
ballad." 

And Anne sang the little chanson, sang it softly and 
clearly, the low sound of the rain forming an accompani- 
ment. 

"Do you know any Italian songs f ' 

"Yes." 

" Please sing me one," 



ANNE. 243 

She sang one of Belzini's selections, and remembered to 
sing it as Tante had directed. 

" You do not sing that as well as the other; there is 
no expression. However, that could hardly be expected, 
I suppose." 

■"Yes, it could, and I know how. Only Tante told me 
not to do it," said the girl, with a touch of annoyance. 

"Tante not being here, I propose that you disobey." 

And Anne, not unwillingly, began ; it had always been 
hard for her to follow Tante's little rule. She had heard 
the song more than once in the opera to which it be- 
longed, and she knew the Italian words. She put her 
whole heart into it, and when she ended, her eyes were 
dimmed with emotion. 

Heathcote looked at her now, and guardedly. This was 
not the school-girl of the hour before. But it was, and 
he soon discovered that it was. Anne's emotion had been 
impersonal ; she had identified herself for the time being 
with the song, but once ended, its love and grief were no 
more to her — her own personality as Anne Douglas — than 
the opera itself. 

"Curious!" thought the man beside her. 

And then his attention was diverted by a moving ob- 
ject advancing along the main road below. Through 
the rain he distinguished the light buggy of Gregory 
Dexter and his pair of fine black horses. They had ev- 
idently been under shelter during the heaviest rain-fall, 
and had now ventured forth again. Heathcote made no 
sign, but watched. x\nne could not see the road. Dex- 
ter stopped at the mill, tied his horses to a post, and then 
tried the doors, and also the door of the miller's little cot- 
tage, peering through the windows as they had done. 
Then he went up the ravine out of sight, as if searching 
for some one. After five minutes he returned, and 
waited, hesitating, under a tree, which partially protect- 
ed him from the still falling drops. Heathcote was 
now roused to amusement. Dexter was evidently search- 
ing for Anne. He lit another cigar, leaned back against 
the rock in a comfortable position, and began a desultory 
conversation, at the same time watching the movements! 



244 ANNE. 

of his rival below. A sudden after-shower had now come 
up — one of those short but heavy bursts of rain on the de- 
parting edge of a thunder-storm, by which the unwary 
are often overtaken. Dexter, leaving his tree, and seizing 
the cushions of the buggy, hurried up the tramway to 
the mill door again, intending to force an entrance. 
But the solid oak stood firm in spite of his efforts, and the 
rain poured fiercely down. Heathcote could see him 
look upward to the sky, still holding the heavy cushions, 
and his sense of enjoyment was so great that he leaned 
'forward and warmly shook hands with Anne. 

" Why do you do that ?" she asked, in surprise. 

"I remembered that I had not shaken hands with you 
all day. If we neglect our privileges, the gods take them 
from us," he answered. And then he had the exquisite 
pleasure of seeing the man below attempt to climb up to 
one of the small mill windows, slip down twice, and at 
last succeed so far as to find footing on a projecting 
edge, and endeavor to open the stubborn sash, which 
plainly would not yield. He was exerting all his strength. 
But without avail. It was a true dog-day afternoon, 
the rain having made the air more close and lifeless than 
before. The strong draught up the chimney of their cave 
had taken the heat of the small fire away from them; 
yet even there among the cool rocks they had found it 
necessary to put out the little blaze, as making their niche 
too warm. Down below in the open valley the heat was 
unbroken ; and to be wet and warm, and obliged to exert 
all one's strength at the same time, is hard for a large man 
like Gregory Dexter. The rain dripped from the roof di- 
rectly down upon his hat, and probably, the looker-on 
thought with glee, was stealing down his back also. At 
any rate he was becoming impatient, for he broke a pane 
of glass and put his hand through to try and reach the 
sash-spring. But the spring was broken ; it would not 
move. And now he must be growing angry, for he 
shivered all the panes, broke the frame, and then tried 
to clamber in ; the cushions were already sacrificed down 
on the wet boaixis below. But it is difficult for a broad- 
shouldered heavy man to climb through a small window, 



ANNE. 245 

especially if lie have no firm foot-hold as a beginning-. 
Heathcote laughed out aloud now, and Anne leaned for- 
ward to look also. 

"Who is it ?" she said, as she caught sight of the strug- 
gling figure. At this moment Dexter had one knee on the 
sill and his head inside, but he was too broad for the space. 

" He is caught! He can neither get in nor out," said 
Heathcote, in an ecstasy of mirth. 

"Who is it ?'' said Anne again. 

"Dexter, of course; he is here looking for you. 
There ! he has slipped— he is in real danger ! No ; he has 
firm hold with his hands. See him try to find the edge 
with his feet. Oh, this is too good !" And throwing back 
his head, Heathcote laughed until his brown eyes shone. 

But Anne, really alarmed, held her breath ; then, when 
the struggling figure at last found its former foot-hold, sho 
gave a sigh of relief. "We must go down," she said. 

"And why. Miss Douglas ?" 

"Did you not say he had come for me ?" 

"That was a sui3position merely. And did not I come 
for you too ?" 

"But as he is there, would it not be better for us to 
go down ?" 

' ' Have we not done well enough by ourselves so far ? 
And besides, at this late hour, I see no object in getting a 
wetting merely for his sake." 

" It is not raining hard now." 

"But it is still raining." 

She leaned forward and looked down at Dexter again ; 
he was standing under a tree wiping his hat with his 
handkerchief, 

"Please let me go down," she said, entreatingly, like 
a child. 

"No," said Heathcote, smiling back, and taking her 
hand as if to make sure. "Do you remember the even- 
ing after the quarry affair, Anne 2 and that I took your 
hand, and held it as I am doing now ? Did you think me 
impertinent ?" 

' ' I thought you very kind. After that I did not mind 
what grandaunt had said." 



246 ANNE. 

"And what had she said ? But no matter; something 
disagreeable, without doubt. Even the boys who frequent 
this retreat could not well have grimier hands than we 
have now : look at them. No, you can not be released, 
unless you promise." 

"What?" 

' ' Not to go down until I give you leave : I will give it 
soon." 

" I promise." 

With a quiet pressure, and one rather long look, he 
relinquished her hand, and leaned back against the rock 
again. ' 

"I wonder how Dexter knew that you were here ?" 

"Perhaps he met grandaunt. I heard him say that 
he was going to Mellport to-day." 

' ' That is it. The roads cross, and he must have met 
her. Probably, then, he has her permission to take you 
home. Miss Douglas, will you accej^t advice ?" 

"I will at least listen to it," said Anne, smiling. 

' ' When the rain stops, as it will in a few minutes, go 
down alone. And say nothing to Mr. Dexter about me. 
Now do notbegiii to batter me with that aggressive truth- 
fulness of yours. You can, of course, tell Miss Vanhorn 
the whole ; but certainly you are not accountable to Greg- 
ory Dexter." 

"But why should I not tell him ?" 

"Because it is as well that he should not know I have 
been here with you all day," said Heathcote, quietly, but 
carious to hear what she would answer. 

"Was it wrong ?" 

"It was a chance. But he would think I planned it. 
Of course I supposed the miller and his family were here." 

"But if it was wrong for you to be here when you 
found them absent, why did you stay ?" said Anne, look- 
ing at him gravely. 

' ' The storm came up, you know ; of course I could not 
leave you. Do not look so serious ; all is well if we keep 
it to ourselves, i^nd Miss Vanhorn \s first command to 
you will be the same. She will look blackly at me for a 
day or two, but I shall be able to bear that. Take my ad- 



AXXE. 247 

vice; to Dexter, at least, say nothing." Then, seeing 
her still unconAdnced, he added, ' ' On my own account, 
too, I wish 3^ou would not tell him." 

"You mean it ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then I will not," she answered, raising her sincere 
eyes to his. 

Heathcote laughed, lightly lifted her hand, and touch- 
ed the blue-veined wrist with his lips. ' ' You true-heart- 
ed little girl !" he said. "I was only joking. As far as 
I am concerned, you may tell Dexter and the whole world. 
But seriously, on your own account, I beg you to refrain. 
Promise me not to tell him until you have seen Miss Van- 
horn." 

"Very well ; I promise that," said Anne. 

" Good-by, then. The rain is over, and he will be go- 
ing. I will not show myself until I see you drive away. 
What good fortune that my horse was tied out of sight ! 
Must you carry all those things, basket, tin case, and all ? 
Why not let me try to smuggle some of them home on 
horseback ? You would rather not ? I submit. There, 
your hat has fallen off; I will tie it on." 

"But the strings do not belong there," said Anne, 
laughing merrily as he knotted the two blue ribbons with 
great strength (as a man always ties a ribbon) under her 
chin. 

' ' Never mind ; they look charming. " 

"And my cuffs?" 

' ' You can not have them ; I shall keep them as souve- 
nirs. And now — have you had a pleasant day, Anne ?" 

"Very," replied the girl, frankly. 

They shook hands in farewell, and then she went down 
the ladder, her shawl, plant case, and basket on her arm. 
Heathcote remained in the cave. When she had reached 
the ground, and was turning to descend the hill, a low 
voice above said, "Anne." 

She glanced up ; Heathcote was lying on the floor of 
the cave with his eyes looking over the edge. "Shake 
hands," he said, cautiously stretching down an arm. 

"But I did." 



248 ANNE. 

" Once more." 

She put down her shawl, plant case, and basket, and, 
climbing- one round of the ladder, extended her hand ; 
their finger-tips touched. 

"Thanks," said the voice above, and the head was 
withdrawn . 

Dexter, after doing what he could to make the buggy 
dry, was on the j^oint of driving away, when he saw a 
figure coming toward him, and recognized Anne. He 
jumped lightly out over the wheel (he could be light on 
occasion), and came to meet her. It was as they had 
thought; he had met Miss Vanhorn, and learning where 
Anne was, had received permission to take her home. 

' ' I shall not be disappointed after all, " he said, his white 
teeth gleaming as he smiled, and his gray eyes resting 
upon her with cordial pleasure. He certainly was a fine- 
looking man. But — too large for a mill window. Fortu- 
nately mill windows are not standards of comparison. 

"It has been raining a long time; where did you find 
shelter ?" he asked, as the spirited horses, fretted by stand- 
ing, started down the moist brown road at a swift pace. 

"In a little cave in the hill-side above us," answered 
Anne, conscious that at that very moment Heathcote was 
probably watching them. She hesitated, and tlien, in 
spite of a distinct determination not to do it, could not 
help turning her head and glancing backward and up- 
ward for a second behind her companion's broad shoul- 
ders. In answer, a handkerchief fluttered from above ; 
he was watching, then. A bright flush rose in her cheeks, 
and she talked gayly to Dexter during the six-mile drive 
between the glistening fields, over the wet dark bridge, 
and up to the piazza of Caryl's, where almost every one 
was sitting enjoying the coolness after the rain, and the 
fresh fragrance of the grateful earth. Rachel Bannert 
came forward as they alighted, and resting her hand ca- 
ressingly on Anne's shoulder, hoiked that she was not 
tired — and were they caught in the rain ? — and did they 
observe the peculiar color of the clouds ? — and so forth, 
and so forth. Rachel was dressed for the evening in 
black lace over black velvet, with a crimson rose in her 



ANNE. 249 

hair; the rich drapery trailed round her in royal length, 
yet in some way failed to conceal entirely the little foot 
in its black slipper. Anne did not hurry away; she 
stood contentedly where she was while Rachel asked all 
her little questions. Dexter had stepped back into th© 
buggy with the intention of driving round himseK to the 
stables ; he had no desire to expose the wrinkled condi- 
tion of his attire to the groups on the x^iazza. But in that 
short interval he noted (as Rachel had intended he 
.should note) every detail of her appearance. Her only 
failure was that he failed to note also, by comparison, the 
deficiencies of Anne. 

When he was gone, being released, Anne ran up to her 
room, placed the fern in water, and then, happening to 
think of it, looked at herself in the glass. The result was 
not cheering. Like most women, she judged herself by 
the order of her hair and dress ; they were both frightful. 

Miss Vanhorn, also caught in the storm, did not return 
until late twilight. Anne, not knowing what she would 
decree when she heard the story of the day, had attired 
herself in the thick white school-girl di'ess which had been 
selected on another occasion of penance — the evening 
after the adventure at the quarry. It was an inconven- 
ient time to tell the story. Miss Vanhorn was tired and 
cross, tea had been sent up to the room, and Bessmer was 
waiting to arrange her hair. "What have you been do- 
ing now?" she said. "Climbing trees? Or breaking 
in colts ?" 

Anne told her tale briefly. The old woman listened, 
without comment, but watching her closely all the time. 

"And he said to tell you," said Anne, in conclusion, 
"but not to tell Mr. Dexter, unless you gave me permis- 
sion." 

"Mr. Dexter alone ?" 

"Mr. Dexter or — any one, I suppose." 

"Very well; that will do. And Mr. Heathcote is 
right; you are not to breathe a word of this adventure 
to any one. But what fascination it is, Anne Douglas, 
which induces you to hang yourself over rocks, and climb 
up into caves, I can not imagine ! Luckily this time you 



250 AXXE. 

had not a crowd of spectators. Bring me tlie fern, and— 
But what, in the name of wonder, are you wearing ? Go 
to your room immediately and put on the lavender silk." 

"Oh, grandaunt, that ?" 

"Do as I bid you. Bessmer, you can come in now. I 
suppose it is ordered for the best that young girls should 
be such hopeless simpletons!" 



Chapter XV. 

" No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike. 
Times change, and people change ; and if our hearts do not change as 
readily, so much the worse for us." — Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

" But, ah ! who ever shunn'd by precedent 
The destined ills she must herself assay?" 

— Shakspeare. 

When Miss Vanhorn and her niece entered the ball- 
room, late u\ the evening, heads were turned to look at 
them; for the old w^oman w^ore all her diamonds, fine 
stones in old-fashioned settings, and shone like a little 
squat-figured East Indian god. Anne was beside her, 
clad in pale lavender — an evening costume simply made, 
but more like full dress than anything she had yet worn. 
Dexter came forward instantly, and asked her to dance. 
He thought he had never seen her look so well — so much 
like the other ladies; for heretofore there had been a 
marked dift'erence — a difference which he had neither 
comprehended nor admired. Anne danced. New invi- 
tations came, and she accepted them. She was enjoying 
it all frankly, when through a window she caught sight 
of Heathcote on the piazza looking in. She happened 
to be dancing with Mr. Dexter, and at once she felt nerv- 
ous in the thought that he might at any moment ask her 
some question about the day which she would find diffi- 
culty in answering. But she had not thought of this un- 
til her eyes fell on Heathcote. 

Dexter had seen Heathcote too, and he had also seen 
her sudden nervousness. He was intensely vexed. 
Could Ward Heathcote, simply by looking through a 



ANNE. 251 

window, make a girl grow nervous in that way, and a 
girl with whom he, Dexter, was dancing ? With in- 
ward angry determination, he immediately asked her to 
dance again. But he need not have feared interference ; 
Heathcote did not enter the room during the evening. 

From the moment Miss Vanhorn heard the story of 
that day her method regarding her niece changed entire- 
ly; for Mr. Heathcote would never have remained with 
her, storm or no storm, through four or five hours, unless 
he either admired her, had been entertained by her, or 
liked her for herself alone, as men will like occasionally 
a frank, natural young girl. 

According to old Katharine, Anne was not beautiful 
enough to excite his admiration, not amusing enough to 
entertain him; it must be, therefore, that he liked her to 
a certain degree for herself alone. Mr. Heathcote was 
not a favorite of old Katharine's, yet none the less was 
^his approval worth having, and none the less, also, was 
he an excellent subject to rouse the jealousy of Gregory 
Dexter, For Dexter was not coming forward as rapidly 
as old Katharine had decreed he should come. Old Kath- 
arine had decided that Anne was to marry Dexter ; but 
if in the mean time her girlish fancy was attracted toward 
Heathcote, so much the better. It would all the more 
surely eliminate the memory of that fatal name, Pronan- 
do. Of course Heathcote was only amusing himself, but 
he must now be encouraged to continue to amuse himself. 
She ceased taking Anne to the woods every day; she 
made her sit among the groups of ladies on the piazza in 
the morning, with Avorsted, canvas, and a pattern, which 
puzzled poor Anne deeply, since she had not the gift of 
fancy-work, nor a talent for tidies. Slie asked Heathcote 
to teach her niece to play billiards, and she sent her to 
stroll on the river-bank at sunset with him under a white 
silk parasol. At the same time, however, she continued 
to summon Mr. Dexter to her side with the same dictato- 
rial manner she had assumed toward him from the first, 
and to talk to him, and encourage him to talk to her 
through long half -hours of afternoon and evening. The 
old woman, with her airs of patronage, her half-closed 



252 ANNE. 

eyes, and frank impertinence, amused him more than any 
one at Caryl's. With his own wide, far-reaching plans 
and cares and enterprises all the time pushing each oth- 
er forward in his mind, it was like coming from a world 
of giants to one of Lilliputians to sit down and talk with 
limited, prejudiced, narrow old Katharine. She knew 
that he was amused ; she was even capable of understand- 
ing it, viewed from his own stand-point. That made no 
difference with her own. 

After three or four days of the chaperon's open ar- 
rangement, it grew into a custom for Heathcote to meet 
Anne at sunset in the garden, and stroll up and down 
with her for half an hour. She was always there, be- 
cause she was sent there. Heathcote never said he would 
come again ; it was supposed to be by chance. But one 
evening Anne remarked frankly that she was very glad he 
came; her grandaunt sent her out whether she wished 
to come or not, and the resources of the small garden 
were soon exhausted. They were sitting in an arbor at 
the end of the serpentine walk. Heathcote, his straw 
hat on the ground, was braiding three spears of grass 
with elaborate care. 

"You pay rather doubtful compliments," he said. 

" I only mean that it is very kind to come so regularly." 

"You will not let even that remain a chance?" 

"But it is not, is it?" 

"Well, no," he answered, after a short silence, "I can 
not say that it is." He dropped the grass blades, leaned 
back against the rustic seat, and looked at her. It was 
a great temptation; he was a finished adept in the art 
of flirtation at its highest grade, and enjoyed the pastime. 
But he had not really opened that game with this young 
girl, and he said to himself that he would not now. He 
leaned over, found his three spears of grass, and went on 
braiding. But although he thus restrained himself, he 
still continued to meet her, as Miss Vanhorn, with equal 
pertinacity, continued to send her niece to meet him. 
They were not alone in the garden, but their conversa- 
tion was unheard. 

One evening tableaux were given: Isabel, Rachel, and 



ANNE. 253 

others had been admired in many varieties of costume and 
attitude, and Dexter had been everything from Richard 
the Lion-hearted to Aladdin. Heathcote had refused to 
take part. And now came a tableau in which Anne, as 
the Goddess of Liberty, was poised on a barrel mounted 
oil three tables, one above the other. This airy elevation 
was considered necessary for the goddess, and the three 
tables were occupied by symbolical groups of the Seasons, 
the A^irtues, and the Nations, all gathered together un- 
der the protection of Liberty on her barrel. Liberty, be- 
ing in this case a finely poised young person, kept her 
position easily, flag in hand, wliile the merry groups were 
arranged on the tables below. When all was ready, the 
curtain was raised, lowered, then raised again for a sec- 
ond view, Anne looking like a goddess indeed (although a 
very young one), her white-robed form outlined against 
a dark background, one arm extended, her head thrown 
back, and her eyes fixed upon the outspread flag. But at 
the instant the curtain began to rise for this second view, 
she had felt the barrel broaden slightly under her, and 
knew that a hoop had parted. At the same second came 
the feeling that her best course was to stand x)erfectly mo- 
tionless, in the hope that the staves would still support 
her until she could be assisted down from her isolated 
height. For she was fifteen feet above the stage, and 
there was nothing within reach which she could grasp. A 
chill ran over her; she tried not to breathe. At the 
same moment, however, when the sensation of falling was 
coming upon her, two firm hands were placed upon each 
side of her waist from behind, very slightly lifting her, as 
if to show her that she was safe even if tlie support did 
give way beneath her. It was Heathcote, standing on the 
table below. He had been detailed as scene-shifter (Ra- 
chel, being behind the scenes herself, had arranged this), 
had noticed the barrel as it moved, and had sprung up 
unseen behind the draperied pyramid to assist the goddess. 
No one saw him. When the curtain reached the foot- 
lights again he was assisting all the allegorical person- 
ages to descend from tlieir heights, and first of all Liber- 
ty, who was trembling. No one knew this, however, save 



254 ANNE. 

himself. Rachel, gorgeous as Autumn, drew him away 
almost immediately, and Anne had no opportunity to 
thank him until the next afternoon. 

"You do not know hoAV frightful it was for the mo- 
ment," she said. "I had never felt dizzy in my life be- 
fore. I had nothing with which I could save myself, 
and I could not jump down on the tables below, because 
there was no footing : I should only have thrown down 
the others. How quick you were, and how kind ! But 
you are always kind." 

"Few would agree with you there, Miss Douglas. Mr. 
Dexter has far more of what is called kindness than I 
have, "said Heathcote, carelessly. 

They were sitting in the same arbor. Anne was silent 
a moment, as if pondering. "Yes," she said, thought- 
fully, "I believe yo-u are right. You are kind to a few; 
he is kind to all. It would be better if you were more 
like him." 

"Thanks. But it is too late, I fear, to make a Dexter 
of me. I have always been, if not exactly a grief to my 
friends, still by no means their pride. Fortunately I have 
no father or mother to be disturbed by my lacks; one 
does not mind being a grief to second cousins." He 
paused; then added, in another tone, "But life is lonely 
enough sometimes." 

Two violet eyes met his as he spoke, gazing at him 
so earnestly, sincerely, and almost wistfully that for an 
instant he lost himself. He began to speculate as to the 
best way of retaining that wistful interest; and then, 
suddenly, as a dam gives way in the night and lets out the 
flood, all his good resolutions crumbled, and his vagrant 
fancy, long indulged, asserted its command, and took its 
own way again. He knew that he could not approach 
her to the ordinary degree and in the ordinary way of 
flirtation ; she would not understand or allow it. With 
the intuition which was his most dangerous gift he also 
knew that there was a way of another kind. And he 
used it. 

His sudden change of purpose had taken but a moment. 
"Lonely enough," he repeated, "and bad enough. Do 





,^3|^' 




f*tf 




-^ 






" SHE STARTED SLIGHTLY." 



AxXNE. 255 

you think there is any use in trying- to be better 'f' He 
spoke as if half in earnest. 

*' We must all try," said the girl, gravely. 

*' But one needs help." 

"It will be given." 

He rose, walked to the door of the arbor, as if hesitar 
ting, then came back abruptly. " You could help me," 
he said, standing in front of her, with his eyes fixed upon 
her face. 

She started slightly, and turned her eyes away, but 
did not speak. Nor did he. At last, as the silence grew 
oppressive, she said, in a low voice: "You are mistaken, 
I think. I can not." 

He sat down again, and began slowly to excavate a 
hole in the sand with the end of his cane, to the conster- 
nation of a colony of ants who lived in a thriving village 
under the opposite bench, but still in dangerous proxim- 
ity to the approaching tunnel. 

' ' I have never pretended to be anything but an idle, use- 
less fellow, " he said, his eyes intent upon his work. "But 
my life does not satisfy me always, and at times I am 
seized by a horrible loneliness. I am not all bad, I hope. 
If any one cared enough — but no one has ever cared." 

"You have many friends," said Anne, her eyes fixed 
ui)on the hues of the western sky. 

"As you see them. The peojDle here are examples of 
my friends." 

" You must have others who are nearer." 

" No, no one. I have never had a home. " He looked 
up as he said this, and met her eyes, withdrawn for a 
moment from the sunset; they expressed so much pity 
that he felt ashamed of himself. For his entire freedom 
from home ties was almost the only thing for which he 
had felt profoundly grateful in his idle life. Other boys 
had been obliged to bend to the paternal will ; other fel- 
lows had not been able to wander over the world and 
enjoy themselves as he had wandered and enjoyed. But 
— he could not help going on now. 

' ' I pretend to be indifferent, and all that. No doubt 
I succeed in appearing so — that is, to the outside world. 



256 ANNE. 

But there come moments when I would give anything 
for some firm belief to anchor myself to, something high- 
er and better than I am." (The tunnel was very near 
the ants noAV.) "I believe, Miss Douglas, I can not help 
believing, that you could tell me what that is." 

"Oh no; I am very ignorant," said Anne, hurriedly, 
returning to the sunset with heightened color. 

' ' But you believe. I will never make a spectacle of 
myself; I will never ask the conventional questions of 
conventional good people, whom I hate. You might in- 
fluence me — But what right have I to ask you, Anne ? 
Why should I think that you would care ?" 

''I do care," said the low voice, after a moment, as if 
forced to answer. 

"Then help me." 

' ' How can I help you ?" 

' ' Tell me what you believe. And make me believe it 
also." 

' ' Surely, Mr. Heathcote, you believe in God ?" 

"I am not sure that I do." 

She clasped her hands in distress. "How can you 
live !" she cried, almost in tears. 

Again Heathcote felt a touch of compunction. But 
he could not make himself stop now ; he was too sincere- 
ly interested. 

"There is no use; I can not argue," Anne was saying. 
" If you do not feel God, I can not make you believe in 
him." 

"Tell me how you feel ; perhaps I can learn from you." 

Poor Anne ! she did not know how she felt, and had 
no words ready. Undeveloped, unused to analysis, she 
was asked to unfold her inmost soul in the broad garish 
light of day. 

"I — I can not," she murmured, in deep trouble. 

"Never mind, then," said Heathcote, with an excel 
lent little assumption of disappointment masked by af- 
fected carelessness. "Forget what I have said; it ^s of 
small consequence at best. Shall we go back to the 
house. Miss Douglas ?" 

But Anne was struggling with herself, making a d»r- 



ANNE. 257 

perate effort to conquer what seemed to her a selfish and 
unworthy timidity. "I will do anything I can," she 
said, hurriedly, in a low voice. 

They had both risen. "Let me see you to-morrow, 
then." 
■"Yes." 

"It is a beginning," he said. He offered his arm 
gravely, almost reverently, and in silence they returned 
to the house. It seemed to Anne that many long minutes 
passed as they walked through the garden, brushed by 
the roses on each side : in reality the minutes were three. 

For that evening meteors had been ai^pointed by the as- 
tronomers and the newspapers. They were, when they 
came, few and faint ; but they afforded a pretext for being 
out on the hill. Anne was there with Mr. Dexter, and 
other star-gazers were near. Heathcote and Rachel, 
however, w^ere not visible, and this disturbed Dexter. In 
spite of himself, he could never be quite content unless 
he knew where that dark-eyed woman w^as. But his in- 
w^ard annoyance did not affect either his memory or the 
fine tones of his voice. No one on the hill that night 
quoted so well or so aptly grand star-like sentences, or 
verses appropriate to the occasion. 

' ' When standing alone on a hill-top during a clear 
night such as this. Miss Douglas," he said, "the roll of 
the earth eastward is almost a palpable movement. The 
sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the 
stars past earthly objects, or by the wind, or by the sol- 
itude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of rid- 
ing along is vivid and abiding. We are now watching 
our own stately progress through the stars." 

" Hear Dexter quote," said Heathcote, in his lowest un- 
der-tone, to Rachel. They were near the others, but, in- 
stead of standing, were sitting on the grass, with a large 
bush for background ; in its shadow their figures were con- 
cealed, and tlie rustle of its leaves drowned their whispers. 

" Hush : I like Mr. Dexter," said Rachel. 

' ' I know you do. You will marry that man some day. " 

" Do yon say that. Ward ?" 

An hour later, Anne, in her ow^n room, was timidly 
17 



258 ANNE. 

adding the same name to lier own petitions before slie> 
slept. 

The next day, and the next, they met in the garden 
at sunset as before, and each time when they parted she 
was flushed and excited by the effort she was making, 
and he was cahn and content. On the third afternoon 
they did not meet, for there was another picnic. But as 
the sun sank below the horizon, and the rich colors rose 
in the sky, Heathcote turned, and, across all the merry 
throng, looked at her as if in remembrance. After that 
he did not see her alone for several days : chance obstacles 
stood in the way, and he never forced anything. Then 
there was another unmolested hour in the arbor; then an- 
other. Anne was now deeply interested. How could she 
help being so, when the education of a soul was placed in 
her hands ? And Heathcote began to be fascinated too. 

By his own conversion ? 

August was nearly over. The nights were cool, and 
the early mornings veiled in mist. The city idlers 
awakened reluctantly to the realization that summer was 
drawing to its close; and there was tlie same old sur- 
prise over the dampness of the yellow moonlight, the dull 
look of the forest ; the same old discovery that the gold- 
en-rods and asters were becoming prominent in the de- 
parture of the more delicate blossoms. The last four 
days of that August Anne remembered all her life. 

On the 28th there occurred, by unexpected self -ar- 
rangement of small events, a long conversation of three 
hours with Heathcote. 

On the 29th he quarrelled with her, and hotly, leaving 
her overwhelmed with grief and surprise. 

On the 30th he came back to her. They had but three 
minutes together on the piazza, and then Mr. Dexter join- 
ed them. But in those minutes he had asked forgiveness, 
and seemed also to yield all at once the points over 
which heretofore he had been immovable. 

On the 31st Helen came. 

It was late. Anne had gone to her room. She had 
not seen Heathcote that day. She had extinguished the 
candle, and was looking at the brassy moon slowly ris- 



ANNE. 259 

ing above the trees, when a light tap sounded on her 
door. 

"Who is it?" she said. 

"Helen, of course," answered a sweet voice she knew. 
She drew hack the bolt swiftly, and Mrs. Lorrington came 
in, dressed in travelling attire. She had just arrived. 
She kissed Anne, saying, gayly : "Are you not glad to 
see nie ? Grandfather has again recovered, and dismissed 
me. I spend my life on the road. Are you well. Crys- 
tal ? And how do you like Caryl's ? No, do not light 
the candle; I can see you in the moonlight, all draped 
in white. I shall stay half an hour — no longer. My 
maid is waiting, and I must not lose my beauty-sleep. 
But I wanted to see you first of all. Tell me about your- 
self, and everything. Did you put down what happened 
in a note-book, as I asked you ?" 

"Yes ; here it is. But the record is brief — only names 
and dates. How glad I am to see you, Helen! How 
very, very glad ! It seemed as if you would never come." 
She took Helen's hands, and held them as she spoke. 
She was very deeply attached to her brilliant friend. 

Helen laughed, kissed her again, and began asking 
questions. She was full of plans. "Heretofore they 
have not staid at Caryl's in the autumn," she said, "but 
this year I shall make them. September and part of Oc- 
tober would be pleasant here, I know. Has any one 
spoken of going ?" 

" Mrs. Bannert has, I think." 

"You mean my dearest friend Rachel. But she will 
stay now that I have come ; that is, if I succeed in keep- 
ing — somebody else. The Bishop has been devoted to 
her, of course, and likewise the Tenor ; the Haunted Man 
and others skirmish on her borders. Even the Knight- 
errant is not, I am sorry to say, above suspicion. ^ Who 
has it especially been ?" 

" I do not know ; every one seems to admire her. I 
think she has not favored one more than another." 

"Oh, has she not?" said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing. 
" It is well I have come. Crystal. You are too innocent 
to live." She tapped her cheek as she spoke, and then 



260 ANNE. 

turned her face to the moonlight. "And whom do you 
like best ?" she said. "Mr. Dexter ?" 

"Yes," said Anne; "I like him sincerely. And you 
will find his name very often there," she added, looking 
at the note-book by Helen's side. 

' ' Yes, but the others too, I hope. What I wan t to know, 
of course, is the wicked career of the Knight-errant." 

"But is not Mr. Dexter the Knight-errant ?" 

"By no means. Mr. Dexter is the Bishop; have you 
not discovered that ? The Knight-errant is very decided- 
ly some one else. And, by-the-way, how do you like 
Some One Else— that is, Mr. Heathcote ?" 

" Mr. Heathcote !" 

"It is not polite to repeat one's words, Crystal. But 
— I suppose you do not like him; and half the time, I 
confess, he is detestable. However, now that I have 
come, he shall behave better, and I shall make you like 
each other, for my sake. There -is just one question I 
wish to ask here: has he been much with Eachel ?" 

' ' No — yes — yes, I suppose he has, " murmured Anne, sit- 
ting still as a statue in the shadow. The brassy moon 
had gone slowly and coldly behind a cloud, and the room 
was dim. 

" You suppose ? Do you not know ?" 

"Yes, I know he has." She stopped abruptly. She 
had never before thought whether Heathcote was or was 
not with Rachel more than with others ; but now she be- 
gan to recall. "Yes, he has been with her," she said 
again, struck by a sudden pang. 

"Very well ; I shall see to it, now that I am here," said 
Helen, with a sharp tone in her voice. ' ' He will i^erhaps 
be sorry that I have arrived just at the end of the season 
— the time for grand climaxes, you know ; but he will 
have to yield. My half-hour is over; I must go. How 
is the Grand Llama ? Endurable ?" 

"She is helping the children; I am grateful to her," 
replied Anne's voice, mechanically. 

"Which means that she is Avorse than ever. What a 
dead-alive voice you said it in ! Now that I am here, I 
will do battle for you. Crystal, never fear. I must go. 



ANNE. 261 

You shall see my triumphal entrance to-morrow at break- 
fast. Our rooms are not far from yours. Good-night." 
She was gone. The door was closed. Anne was alone. 



Chapter XVI. 

" You who keep account 
Of crisis and transition in this hfe, 
Set down the first time Nature says plain 'no' 
To some 'yes' in you, and walks over you 
In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin 
By singing with the birds, and running fast 
With June days hand in hand ; but, once for al], 
The birds must sing against us, and the sun 
Strike down upon us like a friend's sword, caught 
By an enemy to slay us, while we read 
The dear name on the blade which bites at us." 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

It is easy for the young to be happy before the deep feel- 
ings of the heart have been stirred. It is easy to be good 
when there has been no strong temptation to be evil ; easy 
to be unselfish when nothing is ardently craved ; easy to 
be faithful when faithfulness does not tear the soul out of 
its abiding-place. Some persons pass through all of life 
without strong temptations; not having deep feelings, 
they are likewise exempt from deep sins. These pass 
for saints. But when one thinks of the cause of their 
faultlessness, one understands perhaps better the meaning 
of those words, otherwise mysterious, that "joy shall be 
in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over 
ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance." 

Anne went through that night her first real torture ; 
heretofore she had felt only grief — a very different i)ain. 

Being a woman, her first feeling, even before the con- 
sciousness of what it meant, was jealousy. What did 
Helen mean by speaking of him as though he belonged to 
her? She had never spoken in that way before. Al- 
though she — Anne — had mistaken the fictitious titles, 
still, even under the title, there had been no such open 
appropriation of the Knight-errant. What did she mean ? 



262 ANNE. 

And then into this burning jealous anger came the low- 
voiced question, asked somewhere down in the depths of 
her being, as though a judge was speaking, " What — is — 
it — to — you?" And again, "What is it to you?" She 
buried her face tremblingly in Iier hands, for all at once 
she realized what it was, what it had been, unconscious- 
ly perhaps, but for a long time really, to her. 

She made no attempt at self-deception. Her strongest 
trait from childhood had been her sincerity, and now it 
would not let her go. She had begun to love Ward 
Heathcote unconsciously, but now she loved him con- 
sciously. That was the bare fact. It confronted her, it 
loomed above her, a dark menacing shapa, from whose 
presence she could not flee. She shivered, and her breath 
seemed to stop during the slow moment while the truth 
made itself known to her. "O God!" she murmured, 
bursting into tears ; and there was no irreverence in the 
cry. She recognized the faithlessness which had taken 
possession of her — unawares, it is true, yet loyal hearts 
are not conquered so. She had been living in a dream, 
and had suddenly found the dream reality, and the actors 
flesh and blood — one of them at least, a poor wildly loving 
girl, with the mark of Judas upon her brow. She tried 
to pray, but could think of no words. For she was false to 
East, she loved Heathcote, and hated Helen, yet could not 
bring herself to ask that any of these feelings should be 
otherwise. This was so new to her that she sank down 
upon the floor in utter despair and self-abasement. She 
was bound to East ; she was bound to Helen. Yet she had, 
in her heart at least, betrayed them both. 

Still, so complex is human nature that even here in 
the midst of her abasement the question stole in, wliis- 
pering its way along as it came, ^'' Does he care for me ?" 
And "he" was not East. She forgot all else to weigh 
every word and look of the weeks and days that had 
passed. Slowly she lived over in memory all their con- 
versations, not forgetting the most trivial, and even 
raised her arm to get a pillow in order that she might 
lie more easily ; but the little action brought reality again, 
and her arm fell, while part of lier consciousness drew 




SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IX IIKR UAXDS. 



AXXE. 263 

off, and sat in judgment upon the other part. The sen- 
tence was scathmg. 

Then jealousy seized her again. She had admired Hel- 
en so warmly as a woman, that even now she could not 
escape the feeling. She went over in quick, hot review 
all that the sweet voice and delicate lips had ever said Gon= 
cerning the person veiled under tlie name of Knight-er- 
rant, and the result was a miserable conviction that she 
had been mistaken ; that there was a tie of some kind — 
slight, perhaps, yet still a tie. And then, as she crushed 
her hands together in impotent anger, she again realized 
what she was thinking, and began to sob in her grief like 
a child. Poor Anne ! she would never be a child again. 
Never again would be hers that proud dauntless confidence 
of the untried, which makes all life seem easy and secure. 
And here suddenly into her grief darted this new and 
withering thought : Had Heathcote perceived her feeling 
for him? and had he been playing upon it to amuse him- 
self? 

Anne knev>^ vaguely that people treated her as though 
she was hardly more than a child. She was conscious of 
it, but did not dispute it, accepting it humbly as something 
— some fault in herself — which she could not change. 
But now the sleeping woman was aroused at last, and she 
blushed deeply in the darkness at the thought that while 
she had remained unconscious, this man of the world had 
perhaps detected the truth immediately, and had acted as. 
he had in consequence of it. This was the deepest sting 
of all, and again hurriedly she went over all their con- 
versations a second time ; and imagined that she found in- 
dications of what she feared. She rose to her feet with 
the nervous idea of fleeing somewhere, she did not know 
where. 

The night had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but 
the eastern sky was waiting for his coming witli all its 
banners aflame. Standing by the window, she watched 
the first gold rim appear. The small birds were twitter- 
ing in the near trees, the earth was awaking to another 
day, and for the first time Anne realized the joy of that 
part of creation which knows not sorrow or care; for 



264 ANNE. 

the first time wished herself a flower of the field, or a 
sweet-voiced bird sing-ing his happy morning anthem on 
a spray. There were three hours yet before breakfast, 
two before any one would be stirring. She dressed her- 
self, stole through the hall and down the stairs, un~ 
bolted the side door, and went into the garden; she long"- 
ed for the freshness of the morning air. Her steps led 
her toward the arbor; she stopped, and turned in anoth- 
er direction — toward the bank of the little river. Here 
she began to walk to and fro from a pile of drift-wood to 
a bush covered with dew-drops, from the bush back to 
the drift-wood again. Her feet were wet, her head ached 
dully, but she kei)t her mind down to the purpose before 
her. The nightmare of the darkness was g-one; she now 
faced her grief, and knew what it was, and had decided 
upon her course. This course was to leave Caryl's. 
She hoped to return to Mademoiselle at the half-house, 
and remain there until the school opened — if her grand- 
aunt was willing. If her grandaunt was willing — there 
came the difficulty. Yet why should she not be willing ? 
The season w^as over; the summer flowers were gone; 
it was but anticipating departure by a week or two. 
Thus she reasoned with herself, yet felt all the time by 
intuition that Miss Vanhorn w^ould refuse her consent. 
And if she should so refuse, what then ? It could m.ake 
no difference in the necessity for going, but it would make 
the going hard. She was considering this point when she 
heard a footstep. She looked up, and saw — Ward Heath- 
cote. She had been there some time ; it was now seven 
o'clock. They both heard the old clock in the office 
strike as they stood there looking at each other. In half 
an hour the early risers would be coming into the garden. 
Anne did not move or speak ; the great effort she had 
made to retain her composure, when she saw him, kept 
lier motionless and dumb. Her first darting thought had 
been to show him that she was at ease and indifferent. 
But this required w^ords, and she had not one ready ; she 
was afraid to speak, too, lest her voice should tremble. 
She saw, standing there before lier, the man who had 
made her forget Rast, who had made her jealous of Hel- 



ANNE. 265 

en, who had played with her holiest feelings, who had de- 
ceived and laughed at her, the man w^hom she — hated ? 
No, no — w4iom she loved, loved, loved : this w^as the des- 
perate ending. She turned very white, standing motion- 
less beside the dew-spangled bush. 

And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young 
girl wdth her fair face strangely pale and worn, her eyes 
fixed, her lips compressed; she w^as trembling slightly 
and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of her attitude. 

He looked at her in silence for a moment ; then, 
knocking down at one blow all the barriers she had 
erected, he came to her and took her cold hands in his. 
"What is it she has said to you f he asked. 

She drevv' herself aw^ay without speaking. 

"What has Helen said to you? Has she told you 
that I have deceived you ? That I have played a part ?" 

But Anne did not answer; she turned, as if to pass him. 

"You shall not leave me," he said, barring the w^ay. 
"Stay a moment, Anne; I promise not to keep you long. 
You will not ? But you shall. Am I nothing in all 
this ? My feelings nothing ? Let me tell jow one thing : 
whatever Helen may have said, remember that it w^as all 
before I knew — you.''' 

Anne's hands shook in his as he said this. ' ' Let me 
go," she cried, wdth low, quick utterance; she dared not 
say more, lest her voice should break into sobs. 

"I will not,'' said Heathcote, "until you hear mo 
while I tell you that I have not played a false part with 
you, Anne. I did begin it as an experiment, I confess 
that I did ; but I have ended by being in earnest — at leart 
to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely ; 
one side of me she has never even suspected." 

"Mrs. Lorrington has not spoken on the subject," 
murmured Anne, feeling compelled to set him right, but 
not looking up. 

"Then what has she said about me, that you should 
look as you do, my poor child ?" 

"You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, 
with an effort to speak scornfully. "Why should you 
suppose we have talked of you ?" 



266 ANNE. 

^' I do not suppose it; I know it. I have not the heart 
to langh at you, Anne: your white face hurts me like a 
sharp pain. Will you at least tell me that you do not 
believe I have been amusing myself at your expense — 
that you do not believe I have been insincere?" 

' ' I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere. " 

"And you will believe also that I like you — like yon 
very, very much, with more than the ordinary liking?" 

" That is nothing to me." 

' ' Nothing to you ? Look at me, Anne ; you shall look 
once. Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not 
help loving you ? And that you — love me also ?" As he 
spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes, 
those startled violet eyes, that met his at last — for one 
half-moment. 

Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. 
''Leave me," she said, brokenly. "You are cruel." 

"No; only human," answered Heathcote, not quite 
master of his words now. " I have had your confession 
in that look, Anne, and you shall never regret it." 

' ' I regret it already, " she cried, passionately ; " I shall 
regret it all my life. Do you not comprehend ? can you 
not understand ? I am engaged — engaged to be mar- 
ried. I was engaged before we ever met." 

" Yori engaged, when I thought you hardly more than 
a child !" He had been dwelling only upon himself and 
his own course; possibilities on the other side had not oc- 
curred to him. They seldom do to much-admired men. 

" I can not help what you thought me," replied Anne. 
At this moment they heard a step on the piazza ; some one 
had come forth to try the moaning air. Where they 
stood they were concealed, but from the garden walk 
they would be plainly visible. 

"Leave me," she said, hurriedly. 

"I will; I will cross the field, and approach the house 
by the road, so that you will be quite safe. But I shall 
see ypu again, Anne. " He bent his head, and touched her 
hand with his lips, then sprang over the stone wall, and 
was gone, crossing the fields toward tlie distant turnpike. 

Anne returned to the house, exchanging greetings as 



ANNE. 267 

she passed witli the well-preserved jaunty old gentleman 
who was walkmg- up and down the piazza twenty-five 
times before breakfast. She sought her own room, 
dressed herself anew, and then tajDped at her grandaunt's 
door; the routine of the day had her in its iron grasp, 
and she was obliged to follow its law. 

Mrs. Lorrington came in to breakfast like a queen : it 
was a royal progress. Miss Teller walked behind in amia- 
ble majesty, and gathered up the overflow ; that is, she 
shook hands cordially with those who could not reach 
Helen, and smiled especially upon those whom Helen 
disliked. Helen was robed in a soft white woollen ma- 
terial that clung closely about her ; she had never seem- 
ed more slender. Her pale hair, wound round her small 
head, conveyed the idea that, unbound, it would fall to 
the hem of her dress. She wore no ornaments, not even 
a ring on her small fair hands. Her place was at some 
distance from Miss Vanhorn's table, but as soon as she 
was seated she bowed to Anne, and smiled with marked 
friendliness. Anne returned the salutation, and wonder- 
ed that people djd not cry out and ask her if she was dy- 
ing. But life does not go out so easily as miserable 
young girls imagine. 

" Eggs V said the waiter. 

She took one. 

"I thought you did not like eggs," said Miss Vanhoni, 
She was in an ill-humor that morning because Bessmer 
had upset the f>lant-drying apparatus, composed of bricks 
and boards. 

"Yes, thanks," said Anne, vaguely. Mr. Dexter was 
bowing good-morning to her at that moment, and she 
returned the salutation. Miss Vanhorn, observing this, 
withheld her intended rebuke for inattention. Dexter 
had bowed on his way across to Helen ; he had finished 
his own breakfast, and now took a seat beside Miss Teller 
and Mrs. Lorrington. At this instant a servant entered 
bearing a basket of flowers, not the old-fashioned coun- 
try flowers of Caryl's, but the superb cream-colored roses 
of the city, each on its long stalk, reposing on a bed of 
unmixed heliotrope, Helen's favorite flower. All eyes 



068 ANNE. 

coveted the roses as they passed, and watched to see 
their destination. They were presented to Mrs. Lorring- 
ton. 

Every one supposed that Dexter was the giver. The 
rich gift was like him, and perhaps also the time of its 
presentation. But the time was a mistake of the servant's ; 
and was not Mrs. Lorrington bowing her thanks ? — yes, 
she tvas bowing her thanks, with a little air of con- 
sciousness, yet with openness also, to Mr. Heathcote, who 
sat by himself at the end of the long room. He bowed 
gravely in return, thus acknowledging himself the sender. 

"Well," said Miss Vanhorn, crossly, yet with a little 
shade of relief too in her voice, ' ' of all systematic cO' 
quettes, Helen Lorrington is our worst. I suppose that 
we shall have no peace, now that she has come. How- 
ever, it w^ill not last long." 

"You will go away soon, then, grandaunt?" said 
Anne, eagerly. 

Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass ; the tone had be- 
trayed something. " No," she said, inspecting her niece 
coolly; "nothing of the sort. I shall remain through 
September, perhaps later." 

Anne's heart sank. She would be obliged, then, to go 
through the ordeal. She could eat nothing ; a choking 
sensation had risen in her throat when Heathcote bowed 
to Helen, acknowledging the flowers. ' ' May I go, grand- 
aunt ?" she said. " I do not feel well this morning." 

"No; finish your breakfast like a Christian. I hate 
sensations. However, on second thoughts, you may go," 
added the old woman, glancing at Dexter and Helen. 
" You may as well be re-arranging those specimens that 
Bessmer stupidly knocked down. But do not let me find 
the Lorrington in my parlor when I come up; do you 
hear ?" 

" Yes," said Anne, escaping. She ran up stairs to her 
own room, locked the door, and then stood pressing her 
hands upon her heart, crying out in a whisper : ' ' Oh, 
what shall I do ! What shall I do ! How can I bear it !" 
But she could not have even that moment unmolested: 
the day had begun, and its burdens she must bear. 



ANXE. 269 

Bessmer knocked, and began at once tremulously about 
the injured plants through the closed door. 

"Yes," said Anne, opening it, ''I know about them. 
I came up to re-arrange them." 

"It wouldenter been so bad, miss, if it hadenter been 
asters. But I never could make out asters ; they all seem 
of a piece to me," said Bessmer, while Anne sorted the 
specimens, and replaced them within the drying-sheets. 
"Every fall there's the same time with 'em. I just dread 
asters, I do; not but what golden-rods is almost worse." 

"Anne," said a voice in the hall. 

Anne opened the door; it was Helen, with her roses. 

"These are the Grand Llama's apartments, I suppose," 
she said, peeping in. "I will not enter; merely gaze 
over the sacred threshold. Come to my room, Crys- 
tal, for half an hour; I am going to drive at eleven." 

" I must finish arranging these plants." 

"Then come when you have finished. Do not fail; 
I shall wait for you." And the white robe floated off 
down the dark sidling hall, as Miss Vanhorn's heavy foot 
made itself heard ascending the stairs. When Bessmer 
had gone to her breakfast, to collect what strength she 
could for another aster-day, Anne summoned her courage. 

" Grandaunt, I would like to speak to you," she said. 

"And I do not want to be spoken to ; I have neuralgia 
in my cheek-bones." 

" But I would like to tell you — " 

" And I do not w^ant to be told. You are always get- 
ting up sensations of one kind or another, which amount 
to nothing in the end. Be ready to drive to Updegraff 's 
glen at eleven; that is all I have to say to you now." 
She went into the inner room, and closed the door. 

"It does not make any difference," thought Anne, 
drearily: "I shall tell her at eleven." 

Then, nerving herself for another kind of ordeal, she 
went slowly toward Helen's apartments. 

But conventionality is a strong power: she passed the 
first fifteen minutes of conversation without faltering. 

Then Helen said: "'You look pale. Crystal. What is 
the matter?" 



270 ANNE. 

"I did not sleep well." 

' ' And there is some trouble besides ? I see by the note- 
book that you have been with the Bishop almost con- 
stantly; confess that you like him ?" 

"Yes, I like him." 

"Very much V 

"Yes." 

" Very much ?" 

"You know, Helen, that I am engaged." 

"That! for your eugagement," said Mrs. Lorrington, 
taking a rose and tossing it toward her. "I know you 
are engaged. But I thought that if the Bishop would 
only get into one of his dead-earnest moods — he is capable 
of it — you would have to yield. For you are capable of 
it too." 

' ' Capable of what ? Breaking a promise ?" 

"Do not be disagreeable; I am complimenting you. 
No; I mean capable of loving — really loving." 

"All women can love, can they not ?" 

"Themselves ? Yes. But rarely any one else. And 
now let me tell you something delightful — one of those 
irrelevant little inconsistencies which make society amus- 
ing: I am going to drive with the Bishop this morning, 
and not you at all." 

"I hope you will enjoy the drive." 

"You take it well," said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing 
merrily. " But I will not tease you. Crystal. Only tell 
me one thing — you are ajways truthful. Has anything 
been said to you — anything that really means anything 
— since you have been here ?" 

"By whom ?" said Anne, almost in a whisper. 

" The Bishop, of course. Who else should it be ?" 

" Oh, no, no," answered the girl, rising hurriedly, as if 
uncertain what to do. ' ' Why do you speak to me so con- 
stantly of Mr. Dexter ? I have been with — with others 
too." 

' ' You have been with him more than with the ' oth- 
ers' you mention," said Helen, mimicking her tone. 
' ' The note-book tells that. However, I will say no more ; 
merely observe. You are looking at my driving costume : 



ANNE, 27J 

jealous already ? But I tell you frankly, Crystal, that 
regardin^^ dress you must yield to me. With millions 
you could not rival me; on that ground I am alone. 
Rachel looked positively black with envy when she saw 
me this morning: she is ugly in a second, you know, 
if she loses that soft Oriental expression which makes you 
think of the Nile. Imagine Rachel in a Greek robe like 
this, loosely made, with a girdle! I shall certainly look 
well this morning ; but never fear, it shall be for your 
sake. I shall talk of you, and make you doubly interest- 
ing by what I do and do not say ; I shall give thrilling 
glimpses only." 

The maid entered, and Anne sat through the change of 
dress and the rebraiding of the pale soft hair. 

" I do not forbid your peeping through the hall window 
to see us start," said Mrs. Lorrington, gayly, as she drew 
on her gloves. ' ' Good-by. " 

Anne went to her own room. ''Are they all mad?" 
she thought. ' ' Or am I ? Why do they all speak of 
Mr. Dexter so constantly, and not of — " 

"You are late," said Miss Vanhorn's voice. "I told 
you not to keep me waiting. Get your hat and gloves, 
and come immediately^; the carriage is there." 

But it was not as strange in reality as it seemed to 
Anne that Helen, Miss Vanhorn, and others spoke of Mr. 
Dexter in connection with hei^elf. Absorbed in a deep- 
er current, she had forgotten that others judge hj the sur- 
face, and that Mr. Dexter had been with her openly, 
and even conspicuously, during a portion of every day 
for several weeks. To her the two hours or three with 
him had been but so many portions of time before she 
could see, or after she had seen, Heathcote. But time 
is not divided as young ]3eople suppose; she forgot that 
ordinary eyes can not see the invisible weights which 
make ten minutes — nay, five — with one person outbalance 
a whole day w4th another. In the brief diary which 
she had kept for Helen, Dexter\s name occurred far more 
frequently than Heathcote's, and Helen had judged from 
that. Others did the same, with their eyes. If old Kath- 
arine had so far honored her niece as to question her, she 



372 ANNE. 

miglit have learned something more; but she did not 
question, she relied upon her own sagacity. It is a dis- 
pensation of Providence that the old, no matter how 
crowded their own youth may have been, always forget. 
What old Katharine now forgot was this: if a man like 
Gregory Dexter is conspicuously devoted to one woman, 
but always in the presence of others, making no attempt 
to secure her attention for a few moments alone here and 
there, it is probable that there is another woman for 
whom he keeps those moments, and a hidden feeling 
stronger than the one openly displayed. Eachel never 
allow^ed observable devotion. Tliis, however, did not 
forbid the unobserved. 

' ' Grandaunt," began Anne, as the carriage rolled along 
the country road. Her voice faltered a little, and she 
paused to steady it. 

"Wait a day," said Miss Vanhorn, with grim sarcasm ; 
"then there will be nothing to tell. It is always so with 
girls." 

It was her nearest approach to good-humor: Anne took 
courage. "The summer is nearly over, grandaunt — " 

"I have an almanac." 

" — and, as school will soon begin — " 

" In about three wrecks." 

" — I should like to go back to Mademoiselle until then, 
if you do not object." 

Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass, and looked at her 
niece ; then she laughed, sought for a caraway-seed, and 
by good luck found one, and deposited it safely in the 
tight grasp of her glittering teeth. She thought Anne 
was jealous of Mr. Dexter's attentions to Helen. 

"You need not be afraid, child," sb'? said, still laugh- 
ing. "If you have a rival, it is the Egyptian, and not 
that long white creature you call your friend." 

"I am unhappy here, grandaunt. Please let me go." 

"Girls are always unhappy, or thinking themselves 
so. It is one of their habits. Of course you can not go ; 
it would be too ridiculous giving Avay to any such child- 
ish feeling. You will stay as long as I stay." 

"But I can not. I must go." 



ANNE. 273 

"And who holds the authority, pray ?" 

"Dear grandaunt, do not compel me," said Anne, seiz- 
ing" the old woman's hands in hers. But Miss Vanhorn 
drew them away angrily. 

' ' What nonsense !" she said. ' ' Do not let me hear an- 
other word. You will stay according to my pleasure 
(which should be yours also), or you forfeit your second 
winter at Moreau's and the children's allowance." She 
tapped on the glass, and signaled to the coachman to drive 
homeward. "You have spoiled the drive with your ob- 
stinacy ; I do not care to go now. Spend the day in your 
own room. At five o'clock come to me." 

And at five Anne came. 

"Have you found your senses ?" asked the elder wo- 
man, and more gently. 

"I have not changed my mind." 

Miss Vanhorn rose and locked the door. ' ' You will 
now give me your reasons," she said. 

"I can not." 

"You mean that you will not." 

Anne was silent, and Miss Vanhorn surveyed her 
for a moment before letting loose the dogs of war. 
In her trouble the girl looked much older ; it was a 
grave, sad, but determined woman who was standing 
there to receive her sentence, and suddenly the inquisitor 
changed her course. 

"There, there," she said; " never mind about it now. 
Go back to your room ; Bessmer shall bring you some 
tea, and then you will let her dress you precisely as I 
shall order. You will not, I trust, disobey me in so 
small a matter as that ?" 

"And may I go +o-morrow ?" 

' ' We will see. x'ou can not go to-night, at any rate ; 
so do as I bid you." 

Anne obeyed ; but she was disappointed that all was 
not ended and the contest over. For the young, to wait 
seems harder than to suffer. 

Miss Vanhorn thought that her niece was jealous of Hel- 
en in regard to Dexter, and that this jealousy had opened 
her eyes for the first time to her own faithlessness ; being 

18 



274 ANNE. 

conscientious, of course slie was, between the two feelings, 
made very wretched. And the old woman's solution of 
the difficulty was to give Dexter one more and perfect op- 
portunity, if she, Katharine Vanhorn, could arrange it. 
And there was, in truth, very little that old Katharine 
could not arrange if she chose, since she was a woman 
not afraid to use on occasion that which in society is the 
equivalent of force, namely, directness. She was capa- 
ble of saying, openly, ' ' Mr. Dexter, will you take Anne 
out on tiie piazza for a while? The air is close here," 
and then of smiling back upon Rachel, Isabel, or who- 
ever was left behind, with the malice of a Mazarin. 
Chance favored old Katharine that night once and again. 



Chapter XVII. 



" That which is not allotted, the hand can not reach, and what is 
allotted will find you wherever you may be. You have heard Avith what 
toil Secunder penetrated to the land of darkness, and that, after all, he 
did not taste the water of immortality." — Saadi. 

" When a woman hath ceased to be quite the same to us, it mat- 
ters little how different she becomes." — Walter Savage Landor. 

The last dance of the season had been appointed for 
the evening, and Mrs. Lorrington's arrival had stimu- 
lated the others to ordain "full dress" ; they all had one 
costume in reserve, and it was an occasion to bring all 
the banners upon the field, and the lance also, in a last 
tournament. Other contests, other rivalries, had existed, 
other stories besides this story of Anne ; it never happens 
in real life that one woman usurps everything. That this 
dance should occur on this particular evening was one 
of -the chances vouchsafed to old Katharine and lier 
strategy. 

For the fairest costume ordered for Anne had not been 
worn, and at ten o'clock Bessmer with delight was ask- 
ing a white-robed figure to look at itself in the glass, while 
on her knees she spread out the cloud of fleecy drapery 
that trailed softly over the floor behind. The robe was of 



ANNE. 273 

white lace, and simple. But nothing could have brought 
out so strongly the rich, noble beauty of this young face 
and form. There was not an ornament to break the out- 
line of the round white throat, or the beautiful arms, 
baj'ed from the shoulder. For the first time the thick 
brown hair was released from its school-girl simplicity, 
and Anne's face wore a new aspect, as young faces will 
under such changes. For one may be sorrowful, and 
even despairing, yet at eighteen a few waving locks w^ill 
make a fair face fairer than ever, even in spite of one's 
own determined opposition. 

When they entered the ball-room, the second chance 
vouchsafed to old Katharine came to meet them, and no 
strategy was necessary. For Mr. Dexter, with an un- 
wonted color on his face, offered his arm to Anne imme- 
diately, asking for that dance, and ' ' as many dances be- 
sides as you can give me, Miss Douglas," 

All who were near heard his words; among them 
Rachel. She looked at him with soft deprecation in her 
ej^es. But he returned her gaze directly and haughtily, 
and bore Anne away. They danced once, and then went 
out on the piazza. It was a cool evening, and presently 
Miss Vanhorn came to the window. " It is too damp for 
you here, child, " she said. ' ' If j^ou do not care to dance, 
take Mr. Dexter up to see the flowers in our parlor; and 
when you come down, bring my shawl." 

"Mr. Dexter does not care about flowers, I think," 
answered Anne, too absorbed in her own troubles to be 
concerned about her grandaunt's open manoeuvre. She 
spoke mechanically. 

"On the contrary, I am very fond of flowers," said 
Dexter, rising immediately. " And I particularly thank 
you. Miss Vanhorn, for giving me this opportunity to — 
admire them." He spoke with emphasis, and bowed as 
he spoke. The old lady gave him a stately inclination 
in return. They understood each other ; the higher pow- 
ers were agreed. 

When Anne, still self-absorbed and unconscious, enter- 
ed the little parlor, she was surprised to find it brightly 
lighted and prepared, as if foi' their reception. The red 



276 ANNE. 

curtains were closed, a small fire crackled on the hearth, 
the rich perfume of the flowers filled the warm air; in 
the damp September evening- the room was a picture of 
comfort, and in the ruddy light her own figure, in its 
white lace dress, was clearly outlined and radiant. 
"Here are the flowers," she said, going toward the table. 
Dexter had closed the door; he now came forward, and 
looked at the blossoms a moment absently. Then he 
turned toward the sofa, which was covered with the same 
red chintz which hung over the windows to the floor. 
j ' ' Shall we sit here awhile ? The room is pleasant, if 
you are in no hurry to return." 

" No, I am in no hurry," replied Anne. She was glad 
to be quiet and away from the dancers; she feared to 
meet Heathcote. Mr. Dexter always talked ; she would 
not be obliged to think of new subjects, or to make long 
replies. 

But to-night Mr. Dexter was unusually silent. She 
leaned back against the red cushions, and looked at the 
point of her slipper; she was asking herself how long 
this evening would last. 

"Miss Douglas," began Dexter at length, and some- 
what abruptly, " I do not know in what light you re- 
gard me, or what degree of estimation you have con- 
ferred upon me; but — " Here he paused. 

" It is of no consequence," said Anne. 

"What?" 

"I mean," she said, rousing herself from her abstrac- 
tion, "that it does not matter one way or the other. 
I am going away to-morrow, Mr. Dexter. I see now that 
I ought never to have come. But — how could I know ?" 
I "Why do you go?" said her companion, pausing a 
moment also, in his own train of thought. 

"I have duties elsewhere," she began; then stopped. 
*' But that is not the real reason," she added. 

' ' You are unhappy. Miss Douglas ; I can always read 
your face. I will not obtrude questions now, although 
most desirous to lift the burdens which are resting upon 
you. For I have something to ask you. Will you listen 
to me for a few moments ?" 



ANNE. 271 

"Oh yes," said Anne, falling back into apathy, her 
eyes still on tlie point of her slipper. 

"It is considered eg-otistical to talk of one's self," be- 
gan Dexter, after a short silence ; ' ' but, under the circum- 
stances, I trust I may be pardoned." He took an easier 
attitude, and folded his arms. ' ' I was born in New 
Hampshire." (Here Anne tried to pay attention; from 
this beginning, she felt that she must attend. But she 
only succeeded in repeating, vaguely, the word "New 
Hampshire ?" as though she had reasons for thinking it 
might be Maine.) * 

"Yes, New Hampshire. My father was a farmer 
there; but when I was five years old he died, and my 
mother died during the following year. A rich relative, 
a cousin, living in Illinois, befriended me, homeless as 
I was, and gave me that best gift in America, a good 
education. I went through college, and then — found my- 
self penniless. My cousin had died without a will, and 
others had inherited his estate. Since then, Miss Doug- 
las, I have led a life of effort, hard, hard work, and bit- 
ter fluctuations. I have taught school; I have dug in 
the mines; I have driven a stage; I have been lost in 
the desert, and have lived for days upon moss and berries. 
Once I had a hundred thousand dollars— the result of in- 
tensest labor and vigilance through ten long years — and 
I lost it in an hour. Then for three days, shovel in 
hand, I worked on an embankment. I tell you all this 
plainly, so that if it, or any part of it, ever comes up, 
you will not feel that you have been deceived. The lead- 
ing power of my whole life has been action ; whether for 
good or for ill — action. I am now thirty-eight years old, 
and I think I may say that I — am no worse than other 
men. The struggle is now over ; I am rich. I will 
even tell you the amount of my fortune — " 

" Oh no," said Anne, hurriedly. 

"I prefer to do so," replied Dexter, with a formal 
gesture. "I wish you to understand clearly the whole 
position, both as regards myself and all my affairs." 

"Myself and all my affairs," repeated itself buzzing- 
ly in Anne's brain. 



278 ANNE. 

"My property is now estimated at a little more than a 
million, and without doubt it will increase in value, as 
it consists largely of land, and especially mines." 

He paused. He was conscious tliat he had not succeed- 
ed in controlling a certain pride in the tone of his voice, 
and he stopped to remedy it. In truth, he was proud. 
No one but the man who has struggled and labored for 
that sum, unaided and alone, knows how hard it is to win 
it, and how rare and splendid has been his own success. 
He has seen others go down on all sides of him like grain 
before the scythe, while lie stood upright. He knows of 
disappointed hopes, of bitter effort ended in the grave ; of 
men, strong and fearless as himself, who have striven des- 
perately, and as desperately failed. He was silent for a 
moment, thinking of these things. 

"It must be pleasant to have so much money," said 
Anne, sighing a little, and turning her slipper point slight- 
ly, as though to survey it in profile. 

Dexter went on with his tale. He w^as as much for the 
moment absorbed in himself as she was in herself; they 
were like two persons shut up in closely walled towers 
side by side. 

"For some years I have lived at the East, and have 
been much in what is called society in New York and 
Washington," he continued, "and I have had no cause 
to be dissatisfied with the reception accorded to me. I 
have seen many beautiful faces, and they have not entire- 
ly withheld their kindness from me. But — Miss Doug- 
las, young girls like romance, and I have, unfortunate- 
ly, little that I can express, although I believe that I have 
at heart more true chivalry toward women than twenty 
of the idle blase men about here. But that had been bet- 
ter left unsaid. What I wish to say to you is this : will 
you be my wife ? Anne, dear child, will you marry me ?" 
He had ended abruptly, and even to himself unexpected- 
ly, as though his usually fluent speech had failed him. 
He took her hand, and waited for her answer, his face 
showing signs of emotion, which seemed to be more his 
own than roused by anything in her. 

Anne had started back in surprise; she drew her hand 



ANNE. 279 

from his. They were both gloved ; only the kid-skins had 
touched each other. " You are making a mistake,'' she 
said, rising. "You think I am Mrs. Lorrington." 

Dexter had risen also; an involuntary smile passed 
over his face at her words. He took her hand again, and 
held it firmly. 

"Do you not suppose I know to whom I am talking ?" 
he said. "I am talking to you, Anne, and thinking 
only of you. I ask you again, will you be my wife V 

"Of course not. You do not love me in the least, 
and I do not love you. Of what are you dreaming, Mr. 
Dexter ?" She walked across the little room, and stood 
between the windows, the red light full upon her. A 
brightness had risen in her eyes ; she looked very beauti- 
ful in her youthful scorn. 

Dexter gazed at her, but without moving. ' ' You are 
mistaken," he said, gravely. "I do love you." 

" Since when ?" asked the sweet voice, with a touch of 
sarcasm. Anne was now using the powers of conceal- 
ment which nature gives to all women, even the young- 
est, as a defense. Mr. Dexter should know nothing, should 
not be vouchsafed even a glimpse, of her inner feelings; 
she would simply refuse him, as girls did in books. 
And she tried to think what they said. 

But the man opposite her was not like a man in a 
book. "Since six o'clock this evening," he answered, 
quietly. 

Anne looked at him in wonder. 

" Do you wish to hear the whole ?" he asked. 

"No; it is nothing to me. Since you only began at 
six, probably you can stop at twelve," she answered, still 
with her girlish scorn perceptible in her voice. 

But Dexter paid no attention to her sarcasm. " I will 
tell you the whole when you are my wife," he said. 
"Let it suffice now that at the hour named I became 
aware of the worthlessness and faithlessness of women ; 
and — I speak God's truth, Anne — even at that bitter mo- 
ment I fell back upon the thought of you as a safeguard 
— a safeguard against total disbelief in the possibility of 
woman's fidelity. I knew then that I had revered you 



280 A^'NE. 

with my better self all the while — that, young as you are, 
I had believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my 
wife ; and from this instant I will devote all the love in 
me — and I have more than you think — to you alone." 
He had crossed the room, and was standing beside 
her. 

Anne felt at once the touch of real feeling. ' ' I am 
very sorry, ' ' sh e said , gently, looking up into his face. ' ' I 
should have said it at first, but that I did not think you 
were in earnest until now. I am engaged, Mr. Dexter; I 
was engaged before I came here." 

" But," said Dexter, "Miss Vanhorn— " 

"Yes, I know. Grandaunt does not approve of it, 
and will not countenance it. But that, of course, makes 
no difference." 

He looked at her, puzzled by her manner. In truth, 
poor Anne, while immovably determined to keep her 
promise to Rast, even cherishing the purpose, also, of 
hastening the marriage if he wished it, was yet so ineffi- 
cient an actress that she trembled as she spoke, and re- 
turned his gaze through a mist of tears. 

"You ivish to marry this man, I suppose — I am ignor- 
ant of his name ?" he asked, watching her with atten- 
tion . 

' ' His name is Erastus Pronando ; we were children 
together on the island," she answered, in a low voice, 
with downcast eyes. 

"And vou wish to marry him ?" 

"I do." 

Gregory Dexter put another disappointment down 
upon the tablets of his memory — a disappointment and a 
surprise ; he had not once doubted his success. 

In this certainty he had been deceived partly by Miss 
Vanhorn, and partly by Anne herself; by her unstudied 
frankness. He knew that she liked him, but he had 
mistaken the nature of her regard. He could always 
control himself, however, and he now turned to her kind- 
ly. He thought she was afraid of her aunt. "Sit down 
for a few minutes more," he said, "and tell me about 
it. Why does Miss Vanhorn disapprove ?" 



ANNE. 



281 



* * I do not know, '■ replied Anne ; "or, rather, I do know, 
but can not tell you. Never mind about me, Mr. Dexter. 
I am unhappy ; but no one can help me. I must helj) my- 
self." 

. "Mr. Pronando should esteem it his dearest privilege 
to do so,'' said Dexter, who felt himself growing old and 
cynical under this revelation of fresh young love. 

"Yes," murmured Anne, then stopped. " If you will 
leave me now," she said, after a moment, "it would be 
very kind." 

"I will go, of course, if you desire it; but first let me 
say one word. Your aunt objects to this engagement, and 
you have neither father nor mother to take your part. 
I have a true regard for you, which is not altered by the 
personal disappointment I am at present feeling; it is 
founded upon a belief in you which can not change. 
Can I not help you, then, as a friend ? For instance, 
could I not help Mr. Pronando — merely as a friend ? I 
know what it is to have to make one's own way in the 
world unaided. I feel for such boys — I mean young men. 
What does he intend to do ? Give me his address." 

"No," said Anne, touched by this prompt kindness. 
"But I feel your generosity, Mr. Dexter; I shall never 
forget it." Her eyes filled with tears, but she brushed 
them away. "Will you leave me now?" she said. 

"Would it not be better if we returned together? I 
mean, would not Miss Vanhorn notice it less ? You 
could excuse yourself soon afterward." 

" You are right. I will go down with you. But first, 
do I not show — " she went toward the mirror, 

"Show what ?" said Dexter, following her, and stand- 
ing by her side. "That you are one of the loveliest 
young girls in the world — as you look to-nig'ht, the love- 
liest ?" He smiled at her reflection in the mirror as he 
spoke, and then turned toward the reality. "You show 
nothing," he said, kindly; "and my eyes are very ob- 
servant." 

They went toward the door ; as they reached it, he 
bent over her. "If this engagement should hy any 
chance be broken, then could vou not love me a little. 



282 ANNE. 

Anne — only a little V he murmured, looking into her 
eyes questioningly. 

"I wish I could," she answered, gravely. "You are 
a generous man. I would like to love you." 

"Put you could not ?" 

"I can not." 

He pressed her hand in silence, opened the door, and 
led the way down to the ball-room. They had been ab- 
sent one hour. 

Blum, who was standing disconsolately near the en- 
trance, watching Helen, came up and asked Anne to 
dance. Reluctant to go to her grandaunt before it was 
necessary, she consented. She glanced nervously up and 
down the long room as they took their jDlaces, but Heath- 
cote was not present. Her gaze then rested upon anoth- 
er figure moving through the dance at some distance down 
the hall. Mrs. Lorrington in her costume that evening 
challenged criticism. She did this occasionally — it was 
one of her amusements. Her dress was of almost the 
same shade of color as her hair, the hue unbroken from 
head to foot, the few ornaments being little stars of 
topaz. Her shoulders and arms w^ere uncovered; and 
here also she challenged criticism, since she was so 
slight that in profile view she looked like a swaying 
reed. But as there was not an angle visible anywhere, 
her fair slenderness seemed a new kind of beauty, which 
all, in spite of .sculptor's rules, must now admire. Ra- 
chel called her, smilingly, "the amber witch." But Is- 
abel said, "No ; witch-hazel; because it is so beautiful, 
and yellow, and sweet." Rachel, Isabel, and Helen al- 
ways said charming things about each other in public: 
they had done this unflinchingly for years. 

Miss Vanhorn was watching her niece from her com- 
fortable seat on the other side of the room, and watching 
with some impatience. But the Haunted Man was now 
asking Anne to dance, and Anne w^as accepting. After 
that dance she went out on the piazza for a few moments ; 
when she returned, Heathcote was in the room, and 
waltzing with Helen. 

All her courage left her before she could grasp it, and 



AXXE. 283 

hardly knowing what she was doing, she went directly 
across the floor to Miss Vanhorn, and asked if she might 
go to her room. 

Miss Vanhorn formed one of a majestic phalanx of old 
ladies. "Are you tired V she asked. 

"Very tired," said Anne, not raising her eyes higher 
than the stout waist before her, clad in shining black satin. 

' ' She does look pale, " remarked old Mrs. Bannert, sym- 
pathizingl}^. 

"Anne is always sleepy at eight or nine, like a baby," 
replied iVtiss Vanhorn, well aware that the dark -eyed 
Rachel was decidedly a night-bird, and seldom appeared 
at breakfast at all; "and she has also a barbarous way 
of getting up at dawn. Go to bed, child, if you wish ; 
your bowl of bread and milk will be ready in the morn- 
ing." Then, as Anne turned, she added: "You will be 
asleep when I come up ; I will not disturb you. Take a 
good rest." Which Anne interpreted, "I give you that 
amount of time: think well before you act." The last 
respite was accorded. 

But even a minute is precious to the man doomed to 
death. Anne left the ball-room almost with a light 
heart: she had the night. She shut herself in her room, 
took off the lace dress, loosened her hair, and sat down 
by the window to think. The late moon was rising ; 
a white fog filled the valley and lay thickly over the riv- 
er ; but she left the sash open — the cool damp air seemed 
to soothe her troubled thoughts. For she knew — and de- 
spised herself in the knowledge — that the strongest feel- 
ing in her heart now was jealousy, jealousy of Helen 
dancing with Heathcote below. Time passed unheeded ; 
she had not stirred hand or foot when, two hours later, 
there was a tap on her door. It was Helen. 

"Do not speak," she whispered, entering swiftly and 
softly, and closing the door; "the Grand Llama is com- 
ing up the stairs. I wanted to see you, and I knew that 
if I did not slip in before she passed, I could not get in 
without disturbing her. Do not stir; she will stop at 
your door and listen." 

They stood motionless ; Miss Vanhorn's step came along 



284 ANNE. 

the hall, and, as Helen had predicted, paused at Anne's 
door. There was no light within, and no sound ; after a 
moment it passed on, entered the parlor, and then the 
bedroom beyond. 

"If Bessmer would only close the bedroom door," 
whispered Helen, ' ' we should be quite saf e. " At this mo- 
ment the maid did close the door ; Helen gave a sigh of 
relief. ' ' I never could whisper well, " she said. ' ' Only 
cat-women whisper nicely. Isabel is a cat-woman. Now 
when it comes to a murmur — a faint, clear, sweet murmur, 
I am an adept. I wonder if Isabel will subdue her wid- 
ower? You have been here long enough to have an 
opinion. Will she ?" 

"I do not know," said Anne, wondering at her own 
ability to speak the words, 

"And I — do not care ! I am tired, Crystal: may I lie 
on your bed ? Do close that deathly window, and come 
over here, so that we can talk comfortably," said Helen, 
throwing herself down on the white coverlet — a long 
slender shape, with its white arms clasped under its head. 
The small room was in shadow. Anne drew a chair to 
the bedside and sat down, with her back to the moonlight. 

"This is a miserable world," began Mrs. Lorrington. 
Her companion, sitting with folded arms and downcast 
eyes, mentally agreed with her. 

"Of course you do not think so," continued Helen, 
"and perhaps, being such a crystal-innocent, you will 
never find it out. There are such souls. There are also 
others ; and it is quite decided tliat I hate — Rachel Ban- 
nert, who is one of them." 

Anne had moved nervously, but at that name she fell 
back into stilhiess again. 

' ' Rachel is the kind of woman I dread more than any 
other," continued Helen. "Her strength is feeling. 
Feeling! I tell you. Crystal, that you and I are capable 
of loving, and suffering for the one we love, through long 
years of pain, where Rachel would not wet the sole of her 
slipper. Yet men believe in her ! The truth is, men are 
fools: one sigh deceives them." 

"Then sigh," said the figure in the chair. 




"anne drew a chair to the bedside and sat down, with hkh 
back to the moonlight." 



ANNE. 285 

" No ; that is not my talent : I must continue to be my- 
self. But I saw her on the piazza with Ward to-night ; 
and I detest her." 

" With— Mr. Heathcote ?" 
. "Yes. Of course nothing would be so much to her 
disadvantage as to marry Ward, and she knows it ; he 
has no fortune, and she has none. But she loves to make 
me wretched. I made the greatest mistake of my life 
when I let her see once, more than a year ago, hov/ things 
were." 

"How things were?" repeated Anne — that common- 
place phrase which carries deep meanings safely because 
unexpressed. 

"Of course there is no necessity to tell you^ Crystal, 
what you must already know — that Ward and I are in a 
certain way betrothed. It is an old affair: we have 
known each other always." 

"Yes," said the other voice, affirmatively and steadily. 

' ' Some day we shall be married, I suppose : we like 
each other. But there is no haste at present: I think 
we both like to be free. Heigh-ho ! Do you admire 
this dress, Crystal ?" 

" It is very beautiful." 

"And yet he only came in and danced with me once!" 

"Perhaps he does not care for dancing," said Anne. 
She was accomplishing each one of her sentences slowly 
and carefull}^, like answers in a lesson. 

' ' Yes, he does. Do not be deceived by his indolent 
manner, Crystal; he is full of all sorts of unexpected 
strong likings and feelings, in spite of his lazy look. Do 
you think I should be likely to fall in love with a stick ?" 

Anne made no reply. 

"Do you ?" said Helen, insistently, stretching out her 
arms, and adjusting the chains of topaz stars that decked 
their slenderness. 

Anne leaned forward and drew down her friend's hands, 
holding them closely in her own. "Helen," she said, 
" tell me: do you love Mr. Heathcote ?" 

"What is love ?" said Mrs. Lorrington, lightly. 

"Tell me, Helen." 



286 ^NNE. 

"Why do you wish to know V 

" I do wish to know." 

"Ward Heathcote is not worth my love." 

"Is he worth Eachel Bannert's, then?" said Anne, 
touching the spring by which she had seen the other 
stirred. 

"Rachel Bannert!" repeated Helen, with a tone of 
bitter scorn. Then she paused. ' ' Anne, you are a true- 
hearted child, and I tvill tell you. I love Ward Heath- 
cote with my whole heart and soul." 

She spoke in clear tones, and did not turn away or hide 
her face; she lay looking up at the moonlight on the 
rough white wall. It was Anne who turned, shivering, 
and shading her eyes with her hand. 

"I love him so much," Helen continued, "that if he 
should leave me, I believe I should die. Not suddenly, 
or with any sensation, of course. I only mean that I 
should not be able to live." 

Again there was silence. Then the clear soft voice 
went on. 

"I have always loved him. Ever since I can remem- 
ber. Do not be shocked, but I loved him even when I 
married Eichard. I was very young, and did it in a 
sort of desperate revenge because he did not, would not, 
care for me. I was not punished for my madness, for 
Eichard loved me dearly, and died so soon, poor fellow, 
that he never discovered the truth. And then it all be- 
gan over again. Only this time Ward was — different." 

Another silence followed. Anne did not move or speak. 
" Do not be unhappy about me, child," said Helen at 
last, turning on lier arm to look at her companion; "all 
will come riglit in time. It was only that I was vexed 
about this evening. For he has not seemed quite himself 
lately, and of course I attribute it to Eachel: her deadly 
sweetness is like that of nightshade and tube-roses com- 
bined. Now tell me about yourself: how comes on the 
quarrel with the Llama ?" 
" I hardly know." 

' ' I saw you stealing away in your white lace with 
Gregory Dexter this evening, " pursued Helen. ' ' He was 



ANNE. 287 

as agreeable as ever this morning. However, there it is 
again ; just before six, Nightshade strolled off toward the 
ravine ' to see the sunset' (one sees the sunset so well fix)m 
there, you know, facing the east), and Dexter seemed also 
to have forgotten the j)oints of the compass, for — he fol- 
lowed her." 

"Then it was Mrs. Bannert," said Anne, half uncon- 
sciously. 

"It is always Mrs. Bannert. I do not in the least 
know what you mean, but — it is always Mrs. Bannert, 
What did he say about her ?" 

"Of course I can not tell you, Helen. But — I really 
thought it w^as you." 

' ' What should I have to do with it ? How you play 
at cross-purposes, Crystal ! Is it possible that during all 
this time you have not discovered how infatuated our 
Gregory is w^ith Rachel ? Ward is only amusing him- 
self ; but Gregory is, in one sense, carried away. How- 
ever, I doubt if it lasts, and I really think he has a warm 
regard for you, a serious one. It is a pity you could 
not—" 

Anne stopped the sentence with a gesture. 

"Yes, I see that little ring," said Helen. "But the 
world is a puzzle, and w^e often follow several paths be- 
fore w^e find the right one. How^ cold your hands are ! 
The nights are no longer like summer, and the moon is 
Medusa. The autumn moon is a cruel moon always, re- 
minding us of the broken hopes and promises of the lost 
summer. I must go. Crystal. You are pale and weary ; 
the summer with the Llama has been too hard. I believe 
you will be glad to be safely back at Moreau's again. But 
I can not come over now and tell you romances, can I ? 
You know the personages, and the charm' will be gone. 
To-morrow I am going to ride. You have not seen me in 
my habit ? I assure you even a mermaid can not com- 
pare with me. Do you know, I should be happy for life 
if I could but induce Rachel to show herself once on horse- 
back by : ay side : on horseback Rachel looks — excuse the 
w^ord, but it expresses it — sploshy. The trouble is that 
she knows it, and will not go ; she prefers moonlight, a 



388 ANNE. 

piazza, and sylpliide roses in her hair, with the back- 
ground of fluffy white shawl," 

Then, with a little more light nonsense, Helen went 
away — went at last. Anne bolted the door, threw her- 
self down upon her knees beside the bed, with her arms 
stretched out and her face hidden. There had been but 
this wanting to her misery, and now it was added : Helen 
loved him. 

For she was not deceived by the flippant phrases which 
had surrounded tne avowal : Helen would talk flippantly 
on her death-bed. None the less was she in earnest when 
she spoke those few words. In such matters a woman 
can read a woman : there is a tone of voice which can 
not be counterfeited. It tells all. 



Chapter XVIII. 

" What is this that thou hast been fretting and fuming and lament- 
ing and self-tormenting on account of ? Say it in a word : is it not be- 
cause thou art not happy ? Foolish soul ! what act of Legislature was 
there that thou shouldst be happy ? There is in Man a higher than Hap- 
piness ; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessed- 
ness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved." 
— Carlyle. 

After an hour of mute suffering, Anne sought the 
blessed oblivion of sleep. She had conquered herself; 
she was exhausted. She would try to gain strength for 
the effort of the coming day. But nothing avails against 
that fever, strong as life and sad as death, which we call 
Love, and which, in spite of the crowd of shallower feel- 
ings that masquerade under and mock its name, still re- 
mains the master-power of our human existence, Anne 
had no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than there 
rose within her, and ten times stronger than before, her 
love and her jealousy. She would stay and contest the 
matter with Helen. Had he not said, had he not look- 
ed — And then she cauglit herself back in an agony of 
self-reproach. For it is always hard for the young to 
learn the lesson of human weakness. It is strange and 



ANNE. 289 

humiliating" to them to discover that there are powers 
within them stronger than their own wills. The old 
know this so well that they excuse each other silently; 
but, loath to shake the ignorant faith of innocence, they 
leave the young to find it out for themselves. The whole 
night with Anne was but a repetition of efforts and lapses, 
follow^ed toward morning, however, by a struggling re- 
turn to self-control. For years of faithfulness even as a 
child are not thrown away, but yield, thank Heaven ! a 
strength at last in times of trial; else might we all go 
drow^n ourselves. At dawn, with tear-stained cheeks, 
she fell asleep, waking with a start when Bessmet- 
knocked and inquired if she was ill. Miss Vanhorn had 
gone dow^n to breakfast. 

"Please send me some coffee," said Anne, without 
opening the door. "I do not care for anything else. 
I will be ready soon." 

She dressed herself slowly, swallowing the coffee. But 
youth is strong ; the cold bath and the fresh wiiito morn- 
ing dress made her look as fair as ever. Miss Vanhorn 
was waiting for her in the little parlor. Bessmer was 
sent away, and the door closed. The girl remained stand- 
ing, and took hold of the back of a chair to nerve her- 
self for the first step along the hard, lonely road stretch- 
ing out before her like a desert. 

"Anne," began Miss Vanhorn, in a magisterial voice, 
"what did Mr. Dexter say to you last evening?" 

"He asked me to be his wife." 

"I hardly exx^ected it so soon, although I knew it 
would come in time," said the old woman, with a swallow 
oi satisfaction. "Sit down. And don't be an idiot. 
You wall now listen to me. Mr. Dexter is a rich man; 
he is what is called a rising man (if any one wants to 
rise) ; he is a good enough man also, as men go. He 
has no claim, as regards family; neither have you. He 
is a thorough and undiluted American ; so are you. He 
will be a kind husband, and one far higher in the world 
than you had any right to expect. On the other hand, 
you Y:ill do very well as his wife, for you have fair abil- 
ity and a pretty face (it is of course your pink and white 

19 



290 ' ANNE. 

beauty that has won him), and principles enough for 
both. Like all people who have made money rapid' 
ly, he is lavish, and will deny you nothing ; he will 
even allow you, I presume, to help one and all of that 
colony of children, priests, old maids, and dogs, up on 
that island. See what power will be put into your hands ! 
You might labor all your life, and not accomplish one- 
hundredth x^art of that which, as Gregory Dexter's wife, 
you could do in one day. 

" As to your probable objection — the boy-and-girl en- 
gagement in which you were foolish enough to entangle 
yourself — I will simply say, leave it to time ; it will break 
itself. How do you know that it is not, in fact, broken 
already ? The Pronando blood is faithless in its very 
essence," added the old woman, bitterly. "Mr. Dexter 
is a man of the world. I will explain it to him myself; 
he will understand, and will not urge you at present. 
He will wait, as I shall, for the natural solution of time. 
But in the mean while you must not offend him ; he is 
not at all a man whom a woman can offend with im- 
punity. He is vain, and has a singularly mistaken idea 
of his own importance. Agree to what I propose — 
which is simple quiescence for the present — and you 
shall go back to Moreau's, and the allowance for the 
children shall be continued. I have never before in 
my life made so many concessions; it is because you 
have had at times lately a look that brings back — 
Alida." 

Anne's lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over 
her at this allusion to her mother. 

"Well ?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly. 

There was a pause. Then a girl's voice answered : "I 
can not, grandaunt. I must go." 

"You may go, I tell you, back to Moreau's on the 1st 
of October." 

"I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter." 

"No one asks you to marry him now." 

" I can never marry him." 

"Why ?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. "Be 
careful what you say. No lies." 



ANNE. 291 

" I — I am engaged to East." 

"Lie number one. Look at me. If your engage- 
ment was ended, then would you marry Mr. Dexter ?" 

Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. 
"I could not marry liim, because I do not love him," 
she answered. 

"And whom do you love, that you know so much 
about it, and have your ' do not' and ' can not' so prompt- 
ly ready ? Never tell me that it is that boy upon the isl- 
and who has taught you all these new ways, this falter- 
ing and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew 
nothing when you came. Do you wish me to tell you 
what I think of you ?" 

"No," cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on 
her knees beside the arm-chair ; ' ' tell me nothing. Only 
let me go away. I can not, can not stay here ; I am too 
wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion 
of me than I have of myself at this moment. If you 
have any compassion for me — for the memory of my mo- 
ther—say no more, and let me go." She bowed her head 
upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud. 

But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. " I know 
what this means," she said, standing in the centre of the 
room. "Like mother, like daughter. Only Alida i^an 
after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while 
you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is 
simply laughing at you. Don't you know, you fool, that 
Ward Heathcote will marry Helen Lorrington — the wo- 
man you pretend to be grateful to, and call your dearest 
friend ? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suit- 
able wife for him. It has long been generally under- 
stood. The idea of your trying to thrust yourself be- 
tween them is preposterous — I may say a maniac's 
folly." 

"I am not trying: only let me go," sobbed Anne, still 
kneeling by the chair. 

"You think I have not seen," continued Miss Van- 
horn, her wrath rising with every bitter word ; ' ' but I 
have. Only I never dreamed that it was as bad as this. 
I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold and 



292 ANNE. 

immodest — worse than her mother, who was only love- 
mad." 

Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, 
"I will not hear this, either of myself or my mother. 
It is not true." 

"As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not 
hear my voice often in the future. I wash my hands of 
you. You are an ungrateful girl, and will come to an 
evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you 
now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter 
of personal obstinacy, the bread of your sister and bro- 
thers, and leaving them to starve, I stand appalled. 
What do you expect ?" 

" Nothing— save to go." 

" And you shall go." 

"To-day?" 

"This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss 
Vanhorn seated herself with her back toward Anne, and 
took up a book, as though there was no one in the room. 

"Do you want me any longer, grandaunt ?" 

"Never call me by that name again. Go to your 
room ; Bessmer will attend to you. At two o'clock I will 
o-ee you for a moment before you go." 

Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried 
as if by fever ; words had been si^oken which could not be 
forgiven. Inaction was impossible ; she began to pack. 
Then, remembering who had given her all these clothes, 
she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she 
decided to take with her only those she had brought 
from the half-house ; and in this she was not actuated by 
any spirit of retaliation, her idea was that her grandaunt 
would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was 
not generous. She worked steadily ; she did not wish to 
think ; yet still the crowding feelings pursued her, caught 
up with her, and then Avent along with her, thrusting 
their faces close to hers, and forcing recognition. Was 
she, P.S Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in thus 
sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on 
the island to her own obstinacy ? But, as she folded the 
plain garments brought from that home, she knew that it 



ANNE. 293 

was not selfisliness ; as she replaced the filmy ball dress 
in its box, she said to herself that she could not deceive 
Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she 
wrapped the white parasol in its coverings, the old burn- 
ing, throbbing misery rolled over her, followed by the 
hot jealousy which she thought she had conquered ; she 
seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them to 
those left behind. But the action brought shame, and she 
replaced them. And now all the clotlies faced her from 
the open trunks ; those from the island, those which East 
had seen, murmured, ''Faithless!'' Helen's gifts whisper- 
ed, "Ingratitude!" and those of her grandaunt called 
more loudly, "Fool!" She closed the lids, and turned 
toward the window; she tried to busy her mind with 
the future : surely thought and plans were needed. She 
was no longer confident, as she had been when she first 
left her Northern island ; she knew now how wide the 
world was, and how cold. She could not apply at the 
doors of schools without letters or recommendations; 
she could not live alone. Her one hope began and end- 
ed in Jeanne- Armande. She dressed herself in trave^ 
ling garb and sat down to wait. It was nearly noon, 
probably she would not see Helen, as she alwaj^s slept 
through the morning after a ball, preserving by this 
changeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate com- 
plexion. She decided to write a note of farewell, and 
leave it with Bessmer ; but again and again she tore up 
her beginnings, until the floor was strewn witli frag- 
ments. She had so very much not to say. At last 
she succeeded in putting together a few sentences, which 
told nothing, save that she was going away; she bade 
her good -by, and thanked her for all her kindness, 
signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she 
' ' affectionately" or ' ' sincerely" Helen's ' ' friend" ?), mere- 
ly her name, Anne Douglas. 

At one o'clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evi- 
dently she had received orders to enter into no conversa- 
tion with the prisoner ; but she took the note, and prom- 
ised to deliver it Avith her own hands. At two the door 
opened, and Miss Vanhorn came in. 



294 ANNE. 

The old woman's eye took in at a glance the closed 
trunks and the travelling- dress. She had meant to try 
her niece, to punish her ; but even then she could not be- 
lieve that the girl would really throw away forever all 
the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She sat 
down, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. 
" Anne Douglas," she began, "daughter of my misguid- 
ed niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for a final decision. 
Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not, 
one hundred dollars in the world ?" 

"I have not." 

"Have you, or have you not, three brothers and one 
sister wholly dependent upon you ?" 

"I have." 

"Is it just or honorable to leave them longer to the 
charity of a woman who is poor herself, and not even a 
relative ?" 

"It is neither." 

"Have I, or have I not, assisted you, offered also to 
continue the pension which makes them comfortable ?" 

"You have." 

" Then," said the old woman, still with her eyes closed, 
"why persist in this idiotic stubbornness ? In offending 
me, are you not aw^are that you are offending the only 
person on earth who can assist you ? I make no prom- 
ises as to the future; but I am an old woman now, one 
to whom you could at least be dutiful. There — I want 
no line words. Show your fineness by obeying my 
wishes." 

"I will stay with you, grandaunt, willingly, gladly, 
gratefully, if you will take me away from this place." 

"No conditions," said Miss Vanhorn. "Come here; 
kneel down in front of me, so that I can look at you. 
Will you stay with me here, if I yield everything con- 
cerning Mr. Dexter ?" She held her firmly, Avith her 
small keen eyes searching her face. 

Anne was silent. Like the panorama which is said 
to pass before the eyes of the drowning man, the days 
and hours at Caryl's as they would be, must be, unroll- 
ed themselves before her. But there only followed the 



ANNE. 295 

same desperate realization of the impossibility of remain- 
ing; the misery, the jealousy; worse than all, the self- 
doubt. The misery, the jealousy, she could perhaps bear, 
deep as they were. But what appalled her was this new 
doubt of herself, this new knowledge, that, in spite of all 
her determination, she might, if tried, yield to this love 
which had taken possession of her unawares, yield to cer= 
tain words which he might speak, to certain tones of his 
voice, and thus become even more faithless to Rast, to 
Helen, and to herself, than she already was. If he would 
go away — but she knew that he would not. No, she 
must go. Consciousness came slowly back to her eye«, 
which had been meeting Miss Vanhorn's blankly. 

" I can not stay," she said. 

Miss Vanhorn thrust her away violently. ' ' I am 
well paid for having had anything to do with Douglas 
blood, " she cried, her voice trembling with anger. ' ' Get 
back into the wilderness from whence you came ! I will 
never hear your name on earth again. " She left the room. 

In a few moments Bessmer appeared, her eyes red- 
dened by tears, and announced that the wagon was wait- 
ing. It was at a side door. At this hour there was no 
one on the piazzas, and Anne's trunk was carried down, 
and she herself followed with Bessmer, without being- 
seen by any one save the servants and old John Caryl. 

"I am not to say anything to you, Miss Douglas, if you 
please, but just the ordinary things, if you please," said 
Bessmer, as the wagon bore them away. ' ' You are to 
take the three o'clock train, and go — wherever you j)lease, 
she said. I was to tell j^ou." 

' ' Yes, Bessmer ; do not be troubled. I know what to 
do. Will you tell grandaunt, when you return, that I 
beg her to forgive what has seemed obstinacy, but was 
only sad necessity. Can you remember it ?" 

"Yes, miss; only sad necessity," repeated Bessmer, 
with dropping tears. She was a meek woman, with a 
comfortable convexity of person, which, however, did not 
seem to give her confidence. 

"I was not to know, miss, if you please, where you 
bought tickets to," she said, as the wagon stopped at the 



296 ^NNE. 

little station. "I was to give you this, and then go 
right back." 

She handed Anne an envelope containing a fifty-dollar 
note. Anne looked at it a moment. ' ' I will not take 
this, I think ; you can tell grandaunt that I have money 
enough for the present," she said, returning it. She gave 
her hand kindly to the weeping maid, who was then driv- 
en away in the wagon, her sun-umbrella held askew over 
her respectable brown bonnet, her broad shoulders shaken 
with her sincere grief. A turn in the road soon hid 
even this poor friend of hers from view. Anne was 
alone. 

The station-keeper was not there; his house v/as near 
by, but hidden by a grove of maples, and Anne, standing 
on the platform, seemed all alone, the two shining rails 
stretching north and south having the i)eculiarly solitary 
aspect which a one-track railway always has among 
green fields, with no sign of life in sight. No train has 
passed, or ever w411 pass. It is all a dream. She walked 
to and fro. She could see into the waiting-room, which 
was adorned w^itli three framed texts, and another placard 
not religiously intended, but referring, on the contrary, 
to steamboats, which might yet be so interpreted, name- 
ly, "Take the Providence Line." She noted the drearily 
ugly round stove, faded below to white, planted in a 
sand-filled box; she saw the bench, railed off into single 
seats by iron elbows, and remembered that during her 
journey eastward, two, if not three, of these places were 
generally filled w^ith the packages of some solitary fe- 
male of middle age, clad in half-mourning, who remain- 
ed stonily unobservant of the longing glances cast upon 
the space she occupied. These thoughts came to her me- 
chanically. When a decision has finally been made, 
and for the present nothing more can be done, the mind 
goes wandering off on trivial errands ; the flight of a bird, 
the passage of the fairy car of thistle-down, are sufficient 
to set it in motion. It seemed to her that she had been 
there a long time, when a step came through the grove: 
Hosea Plympton — or, as he was called in the neighbor- 
hood, Hosy Plim — was unlocking the station door. Anne 



ANNE. 297 

bought her ticket, and had her trunk checked ; she hoped 
to reach the half-house before midnight. 

Hosy having attended to his official business with dig- 
nity, now came out to converse unofficially with his one 
passenger. "From Caryl's, ain't you ?" 

"Yes," replied Anne. 

^'Goin'toNew York?" 

"Yes." 

"I haven't yet ben to that me-tropo-lis," said Hosy. 
"On some accounts I should admire to go, on others not. 
Ben long at Caryl's ?" 

" Yes, some time." 

' ' My wife's cousin helps over there ; Mirandy's her 
name. And she tells me, Mirandy does, that the heap 
of washing over to that house is a sight to see. She 
tells me, Mirandy does, that they don't especial dress up 
for the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other 
days." 

"That is true, I believe." 

"Sing'lar," said the little man, "what folks '11 do as 
has the money ! They don't seem to be capable of en- 
j'ying themselves exactly; and p'r'aps that's what Prov- 
idence intends. We haven't had city folks at Caryl's 
until lately, miss, you see ; and I confess they've ben a 
continooal study to me ever since. 'Tis amazin' the ways 
the Lord '11 take to make us contented with our lot. 
Till I see 'em, I thought 'em most downright and all ev- 
erlastin' to be envied. But noiv I feel the ba'm of com- 
fort ixTid innard strengthenin' when I see how little they 
know hotv to enj'y themselves, after all. Here's the train, 
miss." 

In another moment Anne felt herself borne away — 
away from the solitary station, with its shining lines of 
rails ; from the green hills which encircled Caryl's ; from 
the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started on her 
journey into the wide world. 

In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half- 
house, in the station-keeper's wagon, a few minutes be- 
fore midnight. A light was still burning, and in re- 
sponse to her knock Jeanne - Armande herself opened 



298 ANNE. 

the door, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap 
on her head. She was much astonished to see her pu- 
1)11, but received her cordially, ordered the trunk brought 
in, and herself attended to the beating down of the sta- 
tion-keeper's boy to a proper i^rice for his services. She 
remarked upon his audacity and i^lainly criminal ten- 
dencies; she thoroughly sifted the physical qualities of 
the horse; she objected to the shape of the wagon; and 
finally, she had noted his manner of bringing in the 
trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, and 
she felt that she must go over to the station herself early 
in the morning, and lodge a complaint against him. 
What did he mean by — But here the boy succumbed, 
and departed with half-price, and Jeanne-Armande took 
breath, and closed the door in triumph. 

"You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle," 
said Anne, with a faint smile. "Shall I tell you why ?" 

"Yes; but no, not now. You are very weary, my 
child; you look pale and worn. Would you like some 
coffee?" 

"Yes," said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion steal- 
ing over her. " But the fast-day coffee will do." For 
there was one package of coffee in the store-room which 
went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed 
to use on Fridays. Not that Jeanne-Armande followed 
strict rules and discipline; but she had bought that cof- 
fee at an auction sale in the city for a very low price, 
and it proved indeed so low in quality that they could 
not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore, 
Friday was the ax>propriate day. 

"No," said the hostess, "you shall have a little of the 
other, child. Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to 
bed, but I will arrange a little supper for you with my 
own hands." 

They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would 
have starved. But mademoiselle was not without re- 
sources, and keys. Soon she "arranged" a brisk little 
fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-pot 
sent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a 
wooden chair beside the little stove, Anne felt more of 



ANXE. 299 

home comfort than she had ever known at Caryl's, and 
the thin miserly teacher was kinder than her grandaunt 
had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; 
then, sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or 
rather as much of it as it w^as necessary mademoiselle 
should know. 

"It is a pity," said Jeanne-Armande, "and especially 
since she lias no relative, this grandaunt, nearer than 
yourself. Could nothing be done in the way of renew- 
al, as to heart-strings ?'' 

' ' Not at present. J. must rely upon you, mademoiselle ; 
in this, even Tante can not help me." 

"That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of 
my own going forth into the provinces," said Jeanne- 
Armande, with the air of an explorer. "We have dif- 
ferent views of life, Hortense Moreau and I ; but there ! 
— we respect each other. Of how much money can you 
dispose at present, my child ?" 

Anne told the sum. 

"If it is so little as that," said Jeanne-Armande, "it 
will be better for you to go westward with me immedi- 
ately. I start earlier than usual this year ; you can take 
the journey with me, and share expenses ; in this w^ay we 
shall both be able to save. Now^ as to chances : there is 
sometimes a subordinate employed under me, when there 
is a press of new scholars. This is the autumn term: 
there may be a press. I must prepare you, how^ever, for 
the lowest of low salaries," said the teacher, her voice 
changing suddenly to a dry sharpness. "I shall present 
you as a novice, to whom the privilege of entering the 
institution is an equivalent of money." 

"I expect but little," said Anne. "A beginner must 
take the lowest place." 

On the second day they started. Jeanne-Armande was 
journeying to Weston this time by a roundabout way. 
By means of excursion tickets to Valley City, offered for 
low rates for three days, she had found that she could (in 
time) reach Weston via the former city, and effect a sav- 
ing of one dollar and ten cents. With the aid of her 
basket, no additional meals would be required, and the 



SOO ANNE 

money saved, therefore, would be pure gain. There was 
only one i3oint undecided, namely, should she go through 
to Vallej^ City, or change at a junction twenty miles 
this side for the northern road ? What would be the sav- 
ing, if any, by going on ? What by changing ? No one 
could tell her ; the complication of excursion rates to Val- 
ley City for the person who was not going there, and the 
method of night travel for a person who would neither 
take a sleeping-car, nor travel in a day car, combined 
themselves to render more impassive still the ticket- 
sellers, safely protected in their official round towers 
from the rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main 
lines between New York and Weston, and all their 
connections, it would be safe to say that mademoiselle 
knew more than the officials themselves. The remain- 
der of the continent was an unknown wilderness in her 
mind, but these lines of rails, over which she Avas obliged 
to purchase her way year after year, she understood 
thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once she 
had gone through Canada; she had looked at canal-boats 
meditatively. She was haunted by a vision that some 
day she might find a clean captain and captain's wife 
who would receive her as passenger, and allow her to 
cook her own little meals along shore. Once, she ex- 
plained to Anne, a Sunday-school camp-meeting had re- 
duced the rates, she being apx^arently on her way thither. 
She had always regretted that the season of State fairs 
was a month later : she felt herself capable of being on her 
way to all of them. 

"But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave 
the train at Stringhampton Junction, is the question I can 
not decide," she said, with irritation, having returned dis- 
comfited from another encounter with a ticket-seller. 

"We reach Weston by both routes, do we not V said 
Anne. 

"Of course; that follows without saying. Evidently 
you do not comprehend the considerations which are 
weighing upon me. However, I will get it out of the 
ticket agent at New Macedonia," said mademoiselle, ris- 
ing. "Come, the train is ready." 



ANNE. 301 

They were going only as far as New Macedonia that 
night; mademoiselle had slept there twice, and intend- 
ed to sleep there again. Once, in her decorous maiden 
life, she had passed a night in a sleeping-car, and never 
again Avould her foot "cross the threshold of one of those 
outrageous inventions." She remembered even now 
with a shudder the x^rocessions of persons in muffled 
drapery going to the wash-rooms in the early morning. 
New Macedonia existed only to give suppers and break- 
fasts; it had but two narrow sleeping apartments over 
its abnormal development of dining-room below. But 
the military genius of Jeanne - Armande selected it on 
this very account ; for sleeping-rooms where no one ever 
slept, half-price could in conscience alone be charged. 
All night Anne was wakened at intervals by the rushing 
sound of passing trains. Once she stole softly to the un- 
curtained window and looked out; clouds covered the 
sky, no star w^as visible, but dow^n the valley shone a 
spark which grew^ and grew, and then turned white and 
intense, as, wdtli a glare and a thundering sound, a lo- 
comotive rushed by, with its long line of dimly light- 
ed sleeping-cars swiftly and softly following with their 
unconscious human freight, the line ending in two red 
eyes looking back as the train vanished round a curve. 

"Ten hours' sleep," said mademoiselle, awaking with 
satisfaction in the morning. "I now think we can sit 
up to-night in the Valley City w^aiting-room, and save the 
price of lodgings. Until twelve they would think we 
were waiting for the midnight train ; after that, the night 
porter, who comes on duty then, would suppose it was 
the early morning express." 

' ' Then you have decided to go through to Valley 
City ?" asked Anne. 

"Yes, since by this arrangement we can do it without 
expense." 

Two trains stopped at New Macedonia for breakfast, 
one eastward bound from over the Alleghanies, the other 
westward bound from New York. Jeanne- Armande's 
strategy was to enter the latter while its passengers were 
at breakfast, and take bodily possession of a good seat, 



302 ANNE. 

removing, if necessary, a masculine bag or two left there 
as tokens of ownership ; for the American man never 
makes war where the gentler sex is concerned, but re- 
treats to another seat, or even to the smokmg-car, with 
silent generosity. 

Breakfast was now over ; the train-boy was exchanging 
a few witticisms w^ith the pea-nut vender of the station, 
a brakeman sparred playfully with the baggage porter, 
and a pallid telegraph operator looked on from his win- 
dov.' with interest. Meanwhile the conductor, in his stiff 
official cap, pared a small apple with the same air of fix- 
ed melancholy and inward sarcasm which he gave to all 
his duties, large and small; when it v/as eaten, he threw 
the core with careful precision at a passing pig, looked 
at his watch, and called out, suddenly and sternly, "All 
aboard!" The train moved on. 

It was nine o'clock. At ten there came into the car a 
figure Anne knew — Ward Heathcote. 



Chapter XIX. 

" Man is a bundle of contradictions, tied together with fancies."— 
Persian Proverb. 

" The might of one fair face snblimes my love, 
For it iiath weaned my heart from low desires. 
Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. 
Forgive me if I can not turn away 
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 
For they are guiding stars, benignly given 
To tempt ray footsteps to the upward way." 

— Michael Angelo. 

Dire was the wrath of Helen Lorrington when, hav- 
ing carefully filled the measure of her lost sleep, she sent 
a little note across to Anne, and answer was returned 
that Miss Douglas was gone. 

Mrs. Lorrington, with compliments to Miss Vanhorn, 
then begged (on a card) to be informed ivhere Miss Doug- 
las was gone. Miss Vanhorn, with compliments to Mrs. 
Lorrington (also on a card), returned answer that she 



ANNE. 303 

did not know. Mrs. Lorrington, deeply grieved to dis- 
turb Miss Yanliorn a second time, then requested to be 
iavored with Miss Douglas's address. Miss Vanhorn, 
with assurances that it was no disturbance, but always 
a pleasure to oblige Mrs. Lorrington, replied that she did 
not possess it. Then Helen waited until the old coupe 
rolled away for an afternoon drive, its solitary occupant 
inside, her profile visible between the two closed glass 
windows like an object mounted for a microscope, and 
going across, beguiled the mild Bessmer to tell all she 
knew. This was not much ; but the result was great an- 
ger in Helen's mind, and a determination to avenge the 
harsh deed. Bessmer did not know causes, but she knew 
actions. Anne had been sent away in disgrace, the maid 
being forbidden to know even the direction the lonely 
traveller had taken. Helen, quick to solve riddles, solved 
this, at least as far as one side of it was concerned, and 
the quick, partially correct guesses of a quick-witted wo- 
man are often, by their very nearness, more misleading 
than any others. Mr. Dexter had been with Anne during 
the evening of the ball ; probably he had asked her to 
be his wife. Anne, faithful to her engagement, had 
refused him; and Miss Vanhorn, faithful to her cruel 
nature, had sent her away in disgrace. And when Hel- 
en learned that Mr. Dexter had gone also — gone early 
in the morning before any one was stirring — she took it 
as confirmation of her theory, and was now quite sure. 
She would tell all the house, she said to herself. She 
began by telling Heath cote. 

They were strolling in the garden. She turned toward 
the little arbor at the end of the path. 

" Not there," said Heathcote. 

"Why not? Have you been there so much with 
Rachel ?" said his companion, in a sweet voice. 

"Never, I think. But arbors are damp holes." 

''Nevertheless, I am going there, and you are going 
with me." 

" As you i3lease," 

"Ward, how much have you been with Rachel?" she 
asked, when they were seated in the little bower, which 



304 ANNE. 

was overgrown with the old-fashioned vine called mat- 
rimony. 

" Oh!" said Heathcote, with a sound of fatigue in his 
voice. ' ' Are we never to have an end to that sub- 
ject?" 

"Yes; when you make an end." 

"One likes to amuse one's self. You do." 

" Whom do you mean now ?" said Helen, diverted from 
her questions for the moment, as he intended she should 
be. 

To tell the truth, Heathcote did not mean any one; 
but he never hesitated. So now he answered, x^romptly, 
"Dexter." He had long ago discovered that he could 
make any woman believe he was jealous of any man, no 
matter whom, even one to whom she had never spoken; 
it presupposed that the other man had been all the time 
a silent admirer, and on this point the grasp of the fem- 
inine imagination is wide and hopeful. 

' ' How like you that is ! Mr. Dexter is nothing to me. " 

"You have been out driving with him already, " said 
Heathcote, pursuing his advantage; "and you have not 
been out with me." 

"He has gone; so we need not quarrel about him." 

"When did he go?" 

"Early this morning. And to show you how unjust 
you are, he went because last evening Anne Douglas re- 
fused him." 

"Then he was refused twice in one day, "said Heath- 
cote. "Mrs. Ban^iert refused him at six." 

"How do you know ?" 

"She told me." 

" Traitorous creature !" 

"Oh no; she is an especial — I may say confidential- 
friend of mine." 

" Then what am I ?" 

"Not a friend at all, I hope," said the man beside her. 
"Something more." He was pulling a spray of vine to 
pieces, and did not look up ; but Helen was satisfied, and 
smiled to herself brightly. She now went back to Anne. 
" Did you know ]30ov Anne was gone too. Ward ?" 



ANNE. 305 

* ' Gone !" said Heatlicote, starting. Then he controlled 
himself. "What do you mean ?" he asked. 

' ' I mean that Miss Vanhorn cruelly sent her away 
this afternoon without warning, and with only a little 
money ; Bessmer was not even allowed to inquire what 
she intended to do, or where she was going. I have heen 
haunted ever since I heard it by visions of the poor child 
arriving in New York all alone, and perhaps losing her 
way: she only knew that one up-to wn locality near 
Moreau's." 

' ' Do you mean to say that no one knows where she has 
gone ?" 

' ' No one. Bessmer tells me that the old dragon was 
in one of her black rages. Mr. Dexter was with Anne for 
some time in the little parlor during the ball last evening, 
and Miss Vanhorn had the room made ready, as though 
she expected him. Here are the few lines the poor child 
left for me : they are constrained, and very unlike her ; 
but I suppose she was too troubled to choose her words. 
She told me herself only the day before that she was 
very unhappy." 

Heatlicote took the little note, and slipped it into an 
inner pocket. He said nothing, and went on stripping 
the vine. 

"There is one thing that puzzles me," continued Hel- 
en. " Bessmer heard the old woman say, violently, ' You 
have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply 
laughing at you. ' Now Anne never threw herself at any 
man's feet — unless, indeed, it might be the feet of that 
boy on the island to whom she is engaged. I do not know 
how she acts when with him." 

" It is a pity, since Bessmer overheard so much, that 
while she was about it she did not overhear more," said 
Heatlicote, dryly. 

' ' You need not suspect her : she is as honest as a cow, 
and as unimaginative. She happened to catch that sen- 
tence because she had entered the next room for some- 
thing ; but she went out again immediately, and heard no 
more. What I fear is that Miss Vanhorn has dismissed 
her entirely, and that I shall not see her again, even at 

20 



306 ANNE. 

Moreau's. In the note she says that she will send me 
her address when she can, which is oddly expressed, is it 
not ? I suppose she means that she wdll send it when 
she knows wliere she is to be. Poor child ! think of her 
to-night out in the hard world all alone!" 

"I do tliink of her." 

"It is good of you to care so much. But you know 
how much attached to her I am." 

"Yes." 

"She is an odd girl. Undeveloped, yet very strong. 
She would refuse a prince, a king, without a thought, and 
work all her life like a slave for the man she loved, who- 
ever he might be. In truth, she has done what amounts 
to nearly the same thing, if my surmises are correct. 
Those children on the island were pensioned, and I pre- 
sume the old dragon has stopped the pension." 

"Have you no idea where she has gone ?" 

"Probably to Mademoiselle Pitre at Lancaster, on 
the Inside Road; I stopped there once to see her. It 
would be her first resource. I shall hear from her, of 
course, in a few days, and then I shall help her in 
every way in my power. We will not let her suffer, 
Ward." 

"No." 

Then there was a pause. 

"Are you not chilly here, Helen ?" 

"It is damp," said Mrs. Lorrington, rising. She al- 
Avays followed the moods of this lethargic suitor of hers 
as closely as she could divine them; she took the ad- 
vance in every oblique and even retrograde movement 
he made so swiftly that it generally seemed to have orig- 
inated with herself. In five minutes they were in the 
house, and she had left him. 

In what was called the office, a grouj) of young men 
were discussing, over their cigars, a camping party ; the 
mountains, whose blue sides lay along the western sky, 
afforded good hunting ground still, and were not as yet 
farmed out to clubs. The men now at Caryl's generally 
camped out for a few weeks every year; it was one of 
their habits. Heathcote, with his hands in the pockets 



ANNE. 30? 

cf his sack-coat, walked up and down, listening. After 
a while, "I think I'll go with you," he said. 

"Come along, then, old fellow; I wish you would." 

"When are you going ?" 

"To-morrow morning — early." 

"By wagon?" 

"Train to the junction; then wagons." 

"How long shall you stay ?" 

"A week or two." 

" I'll go," said Heathcote. He threw away his cigar, 
and started toward his room. Helen was singing in 
the parlor as he passed ; he paused outside for a moment 
to listen. Every one was present save Anue and Greg- 
ory Dexter ; yet the long room wore to him already the 
desolate and empty aspect of summer resorts in Septem- 
ber. He could see the singer plainly ; he leaned against 
the Avail and looked at her. He liked her; she fitted 
into all the grooves of his habits and tastes. And he 
thought she would marry him if he pushed the matter. 
While he was thus meditating, a soft little hand touched 
his arm m the darkness. " I saw you," said Rachel, in a 
whisper, ' ' and came round to join you. You are looking 
at Helen ; what a flute-like voice she has ! Let us go out 
and listen to her on the piazza." 

Mr. Heathcote would be delighted to go. He hated 
that parlor, with all those people sitting round in a row. 
How could Rachel stand it ? 

Rachel, with a pathetic sigh, answered, How could she 
do as she wished ? She had no talent for deception. 

Heathcote regretted this ; he wished with all his heart 
that she had. 

His heart was not all his to wish with, Rachel suggest- 
ed, in a cooing murmur. 

He answered that it was. And then they went out 
on the piazza. 

Helen missed Rachel, and suspected, but sang on as 
sweetly as ever. At last, however, even Rachel could not 
keep the recreant admirer longer. He went off to his 
room, filled a travelling bag, lit a cigar, and then »at 
down to write a note : 



308 ANNE. 

"Dear Helen, — I have decided suddenly to go with 
the camping party to the mountains for a week or two; 
we leave early in the morning. I shall hoi)e to find you 
still liei^ when I return. W. H." 

He sealed this missive, threw it aside, and then began 
to study a railway guide. To a person going across to 
the mountains in a wagon, a knowledge of the latest time- 
tables was, of course, important. 

The next morning, while her maid was coiling her fair 
hair, Mrs. Lorrington received the note, and bit her lips 
with vexation. 

The hunting party drove over to the station soon after 
six, and waited there for the early train. Hosy sold them 
their tickets, and then came out to gain a little informa- 
tion in affable conversation. All the men save Heath- 
cote were attired in the most extraordinary old clothes, 
and they wore among them an assortment of hats which 
might have won a prize in a collection. Hosy regarded 
them with wonder, but his sharp freckled face betrayed 
no sign. They were men, and he was above curiosity. 
He ate an apple reflectively, and took an inward inventory : 
"Hez clothes that I wouldn't be seen in, and sports 'em 
proud as you please. Hats like a pirate. The strangest 
set of fellers !" 

As the branch road train, with a vast amount of self- 
important whistling, drew near the junction with the 
main line, Heathcote said carelessly that he thought he 
would run down to the city for a day or two, and join 
them later. There was hue and cry over this delin- 
quency, but he paid his way to peace by promising to 
bring with him on his return a certain straw -packed 
basket, which, more than anything else, is a welcome 
sight to poor hard-worked hunters in a thirsty land. The 
wagons rolled away with their loads, and he was left to 
take the southern-bound express. He reached the city late 
in the evening, slept there, and early the next morning 
went out to Lancaster Station. When he stepped off 
the train, a boy and a red wagon were in waiting; no- 
thing else save the green country. 



I 



Li 



I , \ \'i 



M 



g^ 



^ ..// 



WJIILE ;iKK ilAID WAS COILING HER FALR HALR." 



ANNK 309 

"Does a French lady named Pitre live in this neigh- 
borhood ?■' he inquired of the boy, who was holding the 
old mare's head watchfully, as though, if not restrained, 
she would impetuously follow the receding train. This 
was the boy with whom Jeanne- Armande had had her 
memorable contest over Anne's fare. Here was his 
chance to make up from the pockets of this stranger — 
fair prey, since he was a friend of hers — the money lost 
on that field. 

' ' Miss Peters lives not fur off. I can drive you there 
if you want ter go." 

Heathcote took his seat in the wagon, and slowly as 
possible the boy drove onward, choosing the most round- 
about course, and bringing the neighborhood matrons to 
their windows to see that wagon pass a second time with 
the same stranger in it, going no one knew where. At 
last, all the cross-roads being exhausted, the boy stopj^ed 
before the closed half -house. 

" Is this the place ? It looks uninhabited," said Heath- 
cote. 

" 'T always looks so ; she's such a screw, she is," replied 
Eli, addressed as "Li" by his friends. 

Heathcote knocked; no answer. He went round to 
the back door, but found no sign of life. 

' ' There is no one here. Would any one in the neigh- 
borhood know where she has gone ?" 

"Mr. Green might, over to the store," said Li. 

"Drive there." 

"I've got to meet the next train, but I'll take you as 
fur as the door ; 'tain't but a step from there to the station. 
And you might as well pay me now," he added, careless- 
ly, "because the mare she's very fiery, and won't stand." 
Pocketing his money — double price — he drove off, ex- 
ultant. It was a mile and a half to the station, and a 
hot, cloudless morning. 

Heathcote made acquaintance with Mr. Green, and ask- 
ed his question. There was no one in the shop at the 
moment, and Mr. Green responded freely that he knew 
Miss Peters very well ; in fact, they were old friends. She 
had gone to Valley City— had, in fact, left that very 



310 ANNE. 

morning in the same red wagon which had brought the 
inquirer to his door ; he, Green, looking out by chance, 
had seen her pass. What did she do in Valley City ? 
Why, she taught — in fact, kept school. She had kept 
school there for ten years, and he, Green, was the only 
one in the neighborhood who knew it, since she — Miss 
Peters — wasn't much liked about there, perhaps on ac- 
count of her being a Papist. But in such matters, he, 
Green, was liberal. Did she have any one with her? 
Yes, she had ; in fact, Miss Douglas — same young lady as 
was there the fore part of the summer. No, they warn't 
going to stop at all in New York ; going right through 
to the West. Hoped there was no bad news ? 

"No," replied Heathcote. 

But his monosyllable without details convinced the 
hearer that there was, and before night the whole neigh- 
borhood was humming with conjecture. The darkest of 
the old suspicions about mademoiselle's past were now 
held to have been verified. 

Heathcote walked back to the station over the red clay 
road, and looked for that boy. But Li had taken care to 
make good his retreat. By the delay two trains were 
missed, and he was obliged to wait ; when he reached the 
city it was two o'clock, and it seemed to him that the pave- 
ments had never exhaled such withering heat. His rooms 
were closed ; he went to the hotel, took a bath, took two, 
but could not recover either his coolness or his temj^er. 
Even after dinner he was still undecided. Should he 
go westward to Valley City by the ten o'clock train ? or 
wait till morning ? or throw it all up and join the other 
men at the mountains ? It was a close evening. Anne 
was at that moment on the ferry-boat. 

Mademoiselle had carefully misled her friend Mr. 
Green ; so great was her caution, so intricate her ma- 
noeuvres, that she not only never once told him the truth, 
but also had taken the trouble to invent elaborate fictions 
concerning herself and her school at Valley City every 
time she closed the half-house and bade him good-by. 
The only person who knew where she really was was 
the Roman Catholic priest who had charge of the mission 



ANNE. 311 

church at the railway - car shops three miles distant ; 
to this secret agent Avas intrusted the duty of walking over 
once a week, without exciting the notice of the neigh- 
borhood, to see if the half -house remained safe and un- 
disturbed. For this serv^ice mademoiselle paid a sm.all 
sum each week to the mission ; and it was money well 
earned. The priest, a lank, lonely, sad-eyed young Irish- 
man, with big feet in low shoes, came down the track 
once in seven days to Lancaster, as if for a walk, taking 
the half-house within his varying circuit, and, with the 
tact of his nation and profession, never once betraying 
his real object. On this occasion Jeanne- Armande had 
even showed Mr. Green her tickets to Valley City : what 
could be surer ? 

At sunset, in the city, the air grew cooler, a salt breeze 
came up the harbor from the ocean, tossing bluely out- 
side. Heathcote decided to take another glass of wine, 
and the morning train. To the mountains ? 

The next day he was somewhat disgustedly eating 
breakfast at New Macedonia ; and going through the cars 
an hour later, came upon Anne. He had not expected 
to see her. He was as much surprised as she was. 

Why had he followed her ? He could hardly have 
given a clear answer, save perhaps that he was accustom- 
ed to follow his inclinations wherever they led him, with- 
out hinderance or question. For there existed no one in 
the world who had the right to question him ; and there- 
fore he was without the habit of accounting for what he 
did, even to himself. It may, perhaps, be considered re- 
markable that, with such a position and training, he was, 
as a man, no worse than he was ; that is, that he should 
be so good a fellow, after all, when he had possessed such 
unlimited opportunities to be a bad one. But natural re- 
finement and fine physical health had kept the balance 
from swaying far ; and the last-named influence is more 
powerful than is realized. Many a man of fine mind — 
even genius — is with the dolts and the brutes in the great 
army of the fallen, owing to a miserable, weak, and dis- 
appointing body. Of course he should have learned, ear- 
ly in life, its deficiencies, should have guarded it, with- 



313 ANNE. 

held it and himself from exertions which to his neigh- 
bor are naught ; hut he does not always learn this lesson. 
The human creature who goes through ]iis allotted course 
with vigorous health and a physical presence fine enough 
to command the unconscious respect of all with whom 
he comes in contact has no conception of the humili- 
ations and discouragements, the struggles and failures, 
which beset the f)ath of his weak-bodied and physically 
insignificant brother. Heathcote, indolent as he was, 
had a superb constitution, for which and of which, un- 
gratefully, he had never thought long enougli to be 
thankful. 

But why was he following Anne ? 

She had told him of her engagement. Even if he 
could have broken that engagement, did he wish to break 
it ? He said to himself that it was because his chivalry, 
as a man, had been stirred by the maid's story of Miss 
Vanhorn's harsh words — words which he had at once con- 
strued as an allusion to himself. Was he not partially, 
perhaps wholly, responsible for her banishment ? But, 
even if this were true, could he not have acted through 
Helen, who was by far the most fitting agent ? Instead 
of this, here he was following her himself ! 

Why? 

Simply because of one look he had had deep down into 
violet eyes. 

He had not expected to find her so soon. In truth, he 
was following in rather a purposeless fashion, leaving 
much to chance, and making no plans. They had gone 
to Valley City ; he would go to Valley City. Perhaps he 
should meet her in the street there ; or perhaps he should 
leave a letter ; perhaps he should do neither, but merely 
turn round, his impulse satisfied, and go home again. 
There was no need to decide now. He was on the way ; 
that was enough. And more than enough. 

Then, suddenly, he saw her. 

She was sitting next the aisle. He put out his hand ; 
she gave hers, and mechanically mentioned his name to 
mademoiselle, who, helmeted in her travelling bonnet 
surmounted by a green veil, presented a martial front to 



ANNE. 313 

all beholders. Tliere was no vacant place near; he re- 
mained standing. 

"How fortunate that I have met you!" he said, with 
conventional cordiality. "The day promised to be in- 
tolerably long" and dull." 

Mademoiselle, who at a glance had taken in his appear- 
ance from head to foot as only a Frenchwoman can, in- 
quired if he was going far, in a voice so harmonious, com- 
pared with the bonnet, that it was an agreeable surprise. 

"To Valley City," replied Heathcote. 

"We also are going to Valley City," said Jeanne- Ar- 
mande, graciously. "It is a pity there happens to be 
no vacant place near for monsieur. If some of these good 
people — " Here she turned the helmet toward her neigh- 
bors behind. 

"Pray do not give yourself any trouble," said Heath- 
cote. "I was on my way to the last car, ho^nng to 
find more air and space. If I am so fortunate as to find 
there two vacant seats, may I not return for you ? It will 
be a charity to my loneliness." 

"And a pleasure, monsieur, to ourselves," said made- 
moiselle. 

He bowed his thanks, and glanced again at Anne. 
She had not spoken, and had not looked at him since her 
first startled glance. But Jeanne- Armande was gi^acious 
for two; she was charmed to have a monsieur of such 
distinguished appearance standing in the aisle by their 
side, and she inwardly wished that she had worn her sec- 
ond instead of her third best gloves and veil. 

"Mrs. Lorrington misses you sadly," said Heathcote 
to the silent averted face, more for the sake of saying 
something than with any special meaning. 

A slight quiver in the downcast eyelids, but no answer. 

"She hopes that you will soon send her your address." 

"It is uncertain as yet where I shall be," murmured 
Anne. 

" I thought you were to be at Valley City ?" 

She made no reply, but through her mind passed the 
thought that he could not know, then, their real destina- 
tion. He had been speaking in a low voice ; mademoi- 



314 ANNE. 

selle had not heard. But he could not carry on a conver- 
sation long with a person Avho would not answer. ' ' I 
will go to the last car, and see if I can find those seats," 
he said, speaking to mademoiselle, and smiling as he 
spoke. She thought him charming. 

As soon as he turned away, Anne said : ''Please do not 
tell him that ours are excursion tickets, mademoiselle. 
Let him think that our destination is really Valley City." 

"Certainly, if you wish it," replied Jeanne- Armande, 
who had a sympathy with all mysteries ; this little speech 
of Anne's gave a new spice to the day. ' ' He is one of the 
circle round your grandaunt, probably V 

"Yes ; I met him at Caryl's." 

' ' A most distinguished personage ; entirely as it should 
be. And did I not overhear the name of the charming 
Mrs. Lorrington also?" 

"He is a friend of Helen's. I think, I am not sure, 
but still I think that they are engaged," said Anne, 
bravely. 

" And most appropriate. I do not know when I have 
been more comforted than by the culture and manner of 
that elegant friend of yours who sought you out at my 
little residence ; I hope it may be my fortunate privilege 
to entertain her there again. From these two examples, 
I am naturally led to think that the circle round your 
grandaunt is one adjusted to that amiable poise so agree- 
able to the feelings of a lady." 

Anne made no reply ; the circle round her grandaunt 
seemed to her a world of dark and menacing terrors, from 
which she was fleeing with all the speed she could sum- 
mon. But, one of these terrors had followed her. 

Presently Heathcote returned. He had found two va- 
cant seats, and the car was much better ventilated than 
this one ; there was no dust, and no one was eating ei- 
ther pea-nuts or apples; the floor Avas clean; the cover- 
ing of the seats seemed to have been recently renewed. 
Upon hearing the enumeration of all these advantages, 
mademoiselle arose immediately, and "monsieur" was 
extremely attentive in the matter of carrying shawls, 
packages, and baskets. But when they reached the car, 



ANNE. 315 

they found that the two seats were not together; one 
was at the end, the other separated from it by the aisle 
and four intervening places. 

"I hoped that you would be kind enough to give me 
the pleasure of being with you by turns, "said Heathcote, 
gallantly, to mademoiselle, ' ' since it was impossible to 
find seats together." As he spoke, he placed Jeanne- 
Armande in one of the seats, and Anne in the other; and 
then gravely, but with just the scintillation of a smile in 
his brown eyes, he took his own place, not beside Anne, 
but beside the delighted Frenchwoman, who could scarce- 
ly believe her good fortune to be real until she found 
him actually assisting her in the disposal of basket, shawl, 
bag. India-rubber shoes, and precious althougli baggy um- 
brella. 



Chapter XX. 

" Philip. Madam, a day may sink or save a realm. 
Mary. A day may save a heart from breaking, too." — Tennyson. 

Mr. Heathcote retained his place beside mademoiselle 
through a whole long hour. She had time to get over her 
fear that he would go away soon, time to adjust her pow- 
ei'S, time to enlarge, and to do justice to herself and sever- 
al subjects adapted elegantly and with easy grace to the 
occasion. In her hard-working life she had seldom en- 
joyed a greater pleasure. For Jeanne- Armande had good 
blood in her veins ; the ends of her poor old fingers were 
finely moulded, and there had been a title in the family 
long ago in Berri. And when at last monsieur did go, 
it was not hastily. Tlie proper preliminaries were spok- 
en, the first little movement made, and then, later, the 
slow rising, as if with reluctance, to the feet. Jeanne- 
Armande was satisfied, and smiled with honeyed gra- 
ciousness, as, after another moment's delay, he bowed 
and went back to the place behind, where Anne was sit- 
ting. 

In truth, Heathcote had not been unwilling to take 
the hour himself; it was not necessary to talk — Jeanne- 



316 ANNE. 

Armande would talk for two. The sight of Anne had 
been unexpected ; he had not decided what he should say- 
to her even at Valley City, much less here. After an 
hour's thought, he took his place beside her. And re- 
marked uxDon — the beauty of the day. 

Dexter would have said something faultless, and all 
the more so if he had wished to disguise his thoughts. 
But all Heathcote said was, "What a lovely day !" 

"Yes," replied Anne. In her mind surged to and fro 
one constant repetition: "Ah, my dear child, do you not 
see that I can not help loving you ? and that you — love 
me also ?" "Do you not see that I can not help loving 
you ? and that you — love me also ?" 

"They improve things, after all," said Heathcote. 
"The last time I went over this road the train-boy was a 
poor little cripple, and therefore one couldn't quite throve 
his books on the floor." This was in allusion to the 
progress of a brisk youth through the car for the j)ur- 
pose of depositing upon the patient knees of each pas- 
senger a paper-covered novel, a magazme or two, and a 
song-book. 

— ' ' And that you — love me also," ran Anne's thoughts, 
as she looked out on the gliding fields. 

There was a silence. Then Heathcote moved nearer. 

"Anne," he said, in a low tone, "I was very much 
disturbed when I found that you had gone. From the 
little I was able to learn, I fear you were harshly treat- 
ed by that hard pld woman who calls herself your aunt." 

" Not according to her view of it," said Anne, her face 
still turned to the window. 

' ' I wish you would look at me, instead of at those stu- 
pid fields," said Heathcote, after a moment, in an ag- 
grieved tone. ' ' Here I have escaped from Caryl's under 
false pretenses, told dozens of lies, spent a broiling morn- 
ing at a hole of a place called Lancaster, melted myself 
in the hot city, and bought tickets for all across the con- 
tinent, just for the chance of seeing you a moment, and 
you will not even look at me." 

But she had turned now. "Did you go out to the 
half -house ?" she said, with a little movement of surprise. 



ANNE. 317 

"Yes," he answered, immediately meeting her eyes, 
and holding them with his own. (They had not precisely 
the kind of expression which is appropriate to the man 
w^ho has decided to perform the part of ' ' merely a kind 
friend." But then Heathcote always looked more than 
he said.) 

"I am very sorry," she murmured — "I m€an, sorry 
that you have followed me." 

"Why are you sorry? You do not know how dis- 
tressed I was when Mrs. Lorrington told me." 

"Helen!" said Anne, her eyes falling at the sound of 
the name. 

"She does not know where I am; no one knows. 
They think I have gone to the mountains. But — I could 
not be at peace with myself, Anne, until I had seen you 
once more. Do you remember the last time we met, that 
morning in the garden ?" She made a mute gesture 
which begged for silence; but he went on: "I can nev- 
er forget that look of yours. In truth, I fear I have done 
all this, have come all this distance, and in spite of my- 
self, for — another." 

There was no one behind them ; they had the last seat. 
Anne w^as thinking, wildly, "Oh, if he would but speak in 
any other tone— say anything else than that !" Then she 
turned, at bay. ' ' Mrs. Lorrington told me that you were 
engaged to her," she said, announcing it quietly, al- 
though her face was very pale. 

' ' Did she ? It is partly true. But— I love you, Anne. " 

The last words that Ward Heathcote had intended to 
speak, when he took that seat beside her, he had now 
spoken ; the last step he had intended to take he had now 
taken. What did he mean ? He did not know himself. 
He only knew that her face was exquisitely sweet to him, 
and that he was irresistibly draw^n toward her, whether 
he would or no. "I love you," he repeated. 

What could be said to such a plain, direct wooer as 
this ? Anne, holding on desperately to her self-posses- 
sion, and throwing up barriers mentally, made of all her 
resolutions and duties, her pride and her prayers, drew 
away, coldly answering : ' ' However you may have for- 



318 ANNE. 

gotten your own engagement, Mr. Heatlicote, I have not 
forgotten mine. It is not riglit for yon to speak and for 
me to hear such words." 

" Right is nothing," said Heathcote, "if we love each 
other." 

" We do not," replied Anne, falling into the trap. 

"We do; at least J do." 

This avowal, again repeated, was so precious to the 
poor humiliated pride of the woman's heart within her 
that she had to pause an instant. "I was afraid you 
would think," she said, blushing brightly — "I was afraid 
you would think that I — I mean, that I can not help be- 
ing glad that you — " 

"That I love you ? I do. But just as truly as I love 
you, Anne, you love me. You can not deny it." 

" I will not discuss the subject. I shall soon be mar- 
ried, Mr. Heathcote, and you — " 

"Never mind me; I can take care of myself. And 
so you are going to marry a man you do not love ?" 

" I do love him. I loved him long before I knew you ; 
I shall love him long after you are forgotten. Leave 
me; I will not listen to you. Why do you speak so to 
me ? Why did you follow me ?" 

"Because, dear, I love you. I did not fully know it 
myself until now. Believe me, Anne, I had no more 
intention of speaking in this way w^hen I sat down here 
than I had of following you when I first heard you had 
gone ; but the next morning I did it. Come, let every- 
thing go to the winds, as I do, and say you love me ; for 
I know^ you do." 

The tears were in Anne's eyes now ; she could not see. 
"Let me go to mademoiselle," she said, half rising as if 
to pass him. " It is cruel to insult me." 

"Do not attract attention; sit down for one moment. 
I will not keep you long ; but you shall listen to me. In- 
sult you ? Did I ever dream of insulting you ? Is it an 
insult to ask you to be my wife ? That is what I ask now. 
I acknowledge that I did not follow you with any such 
intention. But now that I sit here beside you, I realize 
what you are to me. My darling, I love you, child as 



ANNE. 319 

you have seemed. Look up, and tell me that you will be 
my wife." 

"Never." 

"Why?" said Heathcote, not in the least believing- 
her, but Avatching the intense color flush her face and 
throat, and then die away. 

"I shall marry East. And you — will marry Helen." 

" As I said before, I can take care of myself. The ques- 
tion is you.''' As he spoke he looked at her so insistently 
that, struggling and unw^illing, she yet felt herself com- 
pelled to meet his eyes in return. 

"Helen loves you dearly," she said, desperately. 

They were looking full at each other now\ In the 
close proximity required by the noise of the train, they 
could see the varying lights and shadows in the depths 
of each other's eyes. The passengers' faces were all turn- 
ed forward ; there was no one on a line with them ; vir- 
tually they were alone. 

"I do not know what your object is in bringing in 
Mrs. Lorrington's name so often," said Heathcote, "She 
does not need your championship, I assure you." 

"How base to desert her so !" 

" Not any more base than to marry a man you do not 
love," replied Heathcote. "I hardly know anything 
more base than that. But marry me, my darling," he 
added, his voice softening as he bent toward her, "and 
you shall see how I will love you." 

"You said I could go," said the girl, turning from 
him, and putting her hand over her eyes. 

"You may go, if you are afraid. But I hardly think 
you a coward. No; let us have it out now. Here you 
are, engaged. Here I am, half engaged. We meet. Do 
you suppose I wish to love you ? Not at all. You are by 
no means the wife I have intended to have. Do you wish 
to love me ? No. You wish to be faithful to your en- 
gagement. In a worldly point of view we could not do 
a more foolish deed than to marry each other. You have 
nothing, and a burden of responsibilities ; I have very lit- 
tle, and a much heavier burden of bad habits and idleness. 
What is the result? Bv some unknown enchantment 



320 ANNE. 

I begin to love you, you begin to love me. The very 
fact that I am sitting here to-day conclusively proves the 
former. I am as fond of you as a school-boy, Anne. In 
truth, you have made me act like a school-boy. This is 
a poor place to woo you in ; but, dear, just look at me 
once, only once more." 

But Anne would not look. In all her struggles and 
all her resolutions, all her jealousy and her humiliation, 
she had made no xDrovision against this form of trial, 
namely, that he should love her like this. 

" Oh, go, go; leave me," she murmured, hardly able to 
speak. He gathered the words more from the movement 
of her lips than from any sound. 

"I will go if you wish it. But I shall come back," he 
said. And then, quietly, he left her alone, and returned 
to Jeanne- Armande. 

The Frenchwoman was charmed ; she had not expect- 
ed him so soon. She said to herself, with a breath of sat- 
isfaction, that her conversation had fallen in fit places. 

Alone, looking at the hills as they passed in procession, 
Anne collected her scattered resolves, and fought her bat- 
tle. In one way it M^as a sweet moment to her. She 
had felt dyed with eternal shame at having given her 
love unsought, uncared for ; but he loved her — even if 
only a little, he loved her. This was balm to her wound- 
ed heart, and diffused itself like a glow; her cold hands 
grew warm, her life seemed to flow more freely. But 
soon the realization followed that now she must arm her- 
self in new guise to resist the new temptation. She must 
keep her promise. She would marry East, if he wished 
it, though the earth were moved, and the hills carried 
into the midst of the sea. And Heathcote would be far 
happier with Helen; his feeling for herself was but a 
fancy, and would pass, as no doubt many other fancies 
had passed. In addition, Helen loved him ; her life was 
bound up in him, whether he knew it or no. Helen had 
been her kindest friend ; if all else were free, this alone 
would hold her. "But I am glad, glad to the bottom of 
my heart, that he did care for me, even if only a little," 
she thought, as she watched tlie hills. ' ' My task is now 



ANNE. 321 

to protect him from himself, and — and what is harder, 
myself from myself. I will do it. But I am glad — I am 
glad." Quieted, she waited for his return. 

When he came she would speak so calmly and firmly 
that his words would be quelled. He would recognize the 
uselessness of further speech. When he came. But he 
did not come. The hills changed to cliffs, the cliffs to 
mountains, the long miles grew into thirty and forty, yet 
he did not return. He had risen, but did not come to her ; 
he had gone forward to the smoking-car. He had, in 
truth, caught the reflection of her face in a mirror, and 
decided not to come. It is not difficult to make resolu- 
tions ; there is a fervidness in the work that elevates and 
strengthens the heart. But once made, one needs to ex- 
ercise them, otherwise they grow cold and torpid on one's 
hands. 

Jeanne-Armande, finding herself alone, barricaded her 
seat with basket and umbrella, so as to be able to return 
thither (and perhaps have other conversations), and came 
across to Anne. 

"A most accomplished gentleman!" she said, with ef- 
fusion. "Mrs. Lorrington, charming as she is, is yet to 
be herself congratulated. He has even been in Berri," 
she added, as though that was a chief accomplishment, 
"and may have beheld with his own eyes the chateau of 
my ancestoi^." Rarely indeed did Jeanne-Armande al- 
lude to this chateau: persons with chateau ancestors 
might be required to sustain expenses not in accordance 
with her well-arranged rules. 

"Where does this train stop V asked Anne, with some 
irrelevance as to the chateau. 

"At Centerville, for what they call dinner; and at 
Stringhampton Junction in the evening. It is the fast 
express." 

"Do we meet an eastward-bound train at Center- 
ville ?" 

"I presume we do; but we shall not get out, so the 
crowd in the dining-room will not incommode us. The 
contents of my basket will be sufficient. But if you wish 
a cup of coffee, it will be eight cents. There is a species 

21 



322 ANNE. 

of German cake at Centerville, remarkably filling for the 
price. They bring them through the cars." 

"What time is it now ?" 

"About half past twelve ; we reach Centerville at two. 
What age has Monsieur Heathcote, my dear ?" 

"Thirty-two or thirty-three, I believe." 

"A gentleman of independent fortune, I presume ?" 

"He is independent, but, I was told, not rich." 

"The position I should have supposed," said mademoi- 
selle. "What penetrating eyes he possesses; penetrat- 
ing, yet soft. There is something in his glance, coming 
from under those heavy brows, which is particularly mov- 
ing — one might almost say tender. Have you observed 
it ?" 

Yes, Anne had observed it. 

Jeanne- Armande, protected as she supposed from in- 
discretion by the engagement to the charming Mrs. Lor- 
rington, rambled on, enjoying the real pleasure of being 
sentimental and romantic, without risk, cost, or loss of 
time, on this eventful day. 

' ' I wish you could have seen Mr. Dexter, mademoi- 
selle," said Anne, making an effort to turn the tide. " He 
is considered handsome, and he has a large fortune — " 

"But not inherited, I presume," interposed mademoi- 
selle, grandly. "Mr. Heathcote, as I understand, lives 
upon his paternal revenues." 

If Heathcote had been there, he might have answered 
that he tried to, but never succeeded. He was not there, 
however; and Anne could only reply that she did not 
know. 

" He has undoubtedly that air," said Jeanne- Armande, 
faithful to her distinguished escort, and waving away 
all diversions in favor of unknown Dexters. ' ' Do you 
know when they are to be married ?"" 

"No," said Anne, drearily, looking now at the cliffs 
which bounded the narrow valley through Avhich the 
train was rushing. 

"Let us hope that it will be soon; for life is short at 
best. Though not romantic by nature, I own I should 
be pleased to possess a small portion of the wedding cake 



ANNE. 323 

of that amiable pair, " pursued Jeanne- Armande, fixing 
her eyes upon the suspended lamp of the car, lost in sen- 
timental reverie. 

"I think I will buy a newspaper," said Anne, as the 
train-boy came toward them, 

"Buy a paper? By no means," said mademoiselle, 
descending hastily to earth again. ' ' I have yesterday's 
paper, which I found on the ferry-boat. It is in good 
order; I smoothed it out carefully; you can read that." 
She produced it from some remote pocket, and Anne 
took refuge in its pages, while Jeanne- Armande closed 
her eyes under the helmet, no doubt to meditate further 
on the picture of felicity she had called up. 

Anne felt all the weariness of long suspense. It was 
one o'clock ; it was half past one ; it was nearly two ; still 
he did not appear. Even mademoiselle now roused her- 
self, looked at her watch, and in her turn began to ask 
where he could be ; but she had the comfort of asking it 
aloud. 

The speed was now perceptibly slackened, and the 
brakeman announced at the door: " Cen — ter — ville. 
Tiven — timinets for dinner," in a bar of music not unlike 
a hoarse Gregorian cliant. At this instant Heathcote en- 
tered from the next car, 

"Ah I there he is," said mademoiselle, with satisfac- 
tion, ' ' Do you think he will jmrtake of a little taste with 
us ?" He joined them, and she repeated her question in 
the shape of a modest allusion to the contents of her 
basket. 

"No, thanks ; I shall go out and walk up and down to 
breathe the air. But first, will you not go with me, and 
see Avhat they have ? Perhaps we might find something 
not altogether uneatable." 

Mademoiselle declined, with her most gracious smile. 
She would content herself with the contents of her bas- 
ket ; but x^erhaps Anne — 

The eastward-bound train was in, drawn up beside 
them. 

"Yes," said Anne, "I should like to go." Then, as 
soon as they were in the open air, ' ' I only wish to speak 



324 ANNE. 

to you for a moment, " she began. ' ' I shall not go to the 
dining-room." 

''Take my arm, then, and we will walk up and down." 

"Yes, let us walk," she said, moving onward. 

"We can not walk well unless you take my arm." 

"I do not wish to walk well," she answered, angrily. 

He never would act according to her plan or theory. 
Here was all this persistence about a trifle, while she was 
wrought up to matters of deej) moment. 

"I do not care whether you wish to take it or not; 
you m ust. There ! Now what do you want to say to me ?" 
He was not wrought up at all; he was even smiling, 
and looking at her in the same old way. It was hard 
to begin under such circumstances ; but she did begin. 
' ' Mr. Heathcote, while I thank you for all your kind- 
ness—" 

"I have not been kind; I only said that I loved you. 
That is either above or below kindness, certainly not on 
a level with that tepid feeling." 

But Anne would not listen. "While I thank you, I 
wish at the same time to say that I understand quite well 
that it is but an impulse which — " 

"It was but an impulse, I grant," said Heathcote, 
again interrupting her, "but with roots too strong for 
me to break — as I have found to my dismay," he added, 
smiling, as he met her eyes. 

"I wish you, I beg you, to return to New York on 
this train now waiting," said the girl, abandoning all her 
carefully composed sentences, and bringing forward her 
one desire with an earnestness which could not be doubted. 

"I shall do nothing of the kind." 

" But what is the use of going on ?" 

"I never cared much about use. Miss Douglas." 

"And then there is the pain." 

"Not for me." 

"For me, then," she said, looking away from him 
across the net-work of tracks, and up the little village 
street ending in the blue side of the mountain. ' ' Putting 
everything else aside, do you care nothing for my 
pain ?" 



ANNE. 325 

"I can not help caring more for the things you put 
aside, since /happen to be one of them." 

' ' You are selfish, " she said, hotly. ' ' I ask you to leave 
me; I tell you your presence pains me; and you will not 
go."- She drew her arm from his, and turned toward 
the car. He lifted his hat, and went across to the din- 
ing-hall. 

Mademoiselle was eating cold toast. She considered 
that toast retained its freshness longer than plain bread. 
Anne sat down beside her. She felt a hope that Heath- 
cote would ]3erhaps take the city-bound train after all. 
She heard the bell ring, and watched the passengers hast- 
en forth from the dining -hall. The eastward-bound 
train was going — was gone ; a golden space of sunshine 
and the empty rails were now where had been its noise 
and bell and steam. 

"Our own passengers will soon be returning," said 
Jeanne-Armande, brushing away the crumbs, and look- 
ing at herself in the glass to see if the helmet was straight. 

"May I sit here with you ?" said Anne. 

" Certainly, my dear. But Mr. Heathcote — will he not 
be disappointed ?" 

"No," replied the girl, dully. " I do not think he 
will care to talk to me this afternoon." 

Jeanne-Armande said to herself that perhaps he would 
care to talk to some one else. But she made no com- 
ment. 

The train moved on. An hour passed, and he did not 
appear. The Frenchwoman could not conceal her dis- 
appointment. " If he intended to leave the train at Cen- 
terville, I am surprised that he should not have returned 
to make us his farewells," she said, acidly. 

"He is not always attentive to such things," said 
Anne. 

' ' On the contrary, I have found him extremely attent- 
ive," retorted mademoiselle, veering again. 

But at this stage Heathcote entered, and Anne's hope 
that he had left them was dashed to the ground. He 
noted the situation ; and then he asked madeinoiselle if 
she would not join him in the other seat for a while. 



326 ANNE. 

The flattered Frenchwoman consented, and as he fol- 
lowed her he gave Anne a g-Iance which said, "Check." 
And Anne felt that it was "check" indeed. 

He had no intention of troubling her ; he would give 
her time to grow tired. 

But she was tired already. 

At last, however, he did come. They were in plain 
sight now, people were sitting behind them; she coukl 
not childishly refuse to let him take the vacant place be- 
side her. But at least, she thought, his words must be 
guarded, or people behind would make out what he said, 
even from the motion of his lips. 

But Heathcote never cared for people. 

"Dear," he said, bending toward her, "I am so glad 
to be with you again!" After all, he had managed to 
place himself so that by supporting his cheek with his 
hand, the people behind could not see his face at all, 
much less make out what he said. 

Anne did not reply. 

' ' Won't you even look at me ? I must content myself, 
then, with your profile." 

" You are ungenerous," she answered, in a tone as low 
as his own. "It will end^n my feeling a contempt for 
you." 

"And I — never felt so proud of myself in all my life 
before. For what am I doing ? Throwing away all my 
fixed ideas of what life should be, for your sake, and glad 
to do it." 

' ' Mr. Heathcote, will you never believe that I am in 
earnest ?" 

"I know very well that you are in earnest. But I 
shall be equally in earnest in breaking down the bar- 
riers between us. When that Western lover of yours is 
married to some one else, and Mrs. Lorrington likewise, 
then shall we not be free ?" 

" Helen will never marry any one else." 

"Why do you not say that Mr. Pronando never will ?" 

"Because I am not sure," she answered, with sad hu- 
mility. 

"Are you going to tell him all that has happened ?" 



ANNE. 32? 

"Yes/' 

" And leave the decision to him?" 

"Yes." 

"You will put yourself in a false position, then. If 
you really intend to marry him, it would be safer to tell 
him nothing, " said Heathcote, in an impartial tone. ' ' No 
man likes to hear that sort of thing, even if his wife tells 
it herself. Though he may know she has loved some 
one else, he does not care to have it stated in words ; 
he would rather leave it disembodied." Anne was look- 
ing at him; a sudden pain, which she did not have time 
to conceal, showed itself in her face as he spoke. "You 
darling child !" said Heathcote, laughing. ' ' See how you 
look when I even speak of your marrying any one save 
me!" 

She shrank back, feeling the justice of his inference. 
Her resolution remained unchanged ; but she could not 
withstand entirely the personal power of his presence. 
She gazed at the afternoon sunshine striking the mount- 
ain-peaks, and asked herself how she could bear the long 
hours that still lay between her and the time of release 
— release from this narrow space where she must sit be- 
side him, and feel the dangerous subtle influence of his 
voice and eyes. Then suddenly an idea came to her, 
like a door ox)ening silently before a prisoner in a cell. 
She kept her face turned toward the window, Avhile rap- 
idly and with a beating heart she went over its possibili- 
ties. Yes, it could be done. It should be done. With 
inward excitement she tried to arrange the details. 

Heathcote had fallen into silence ; but he seemed quite 
content to sit there beside her without speaking. At last, 
having decided upon her course, and feeling nervously 
unable to endure his wordless presence longer, she began 
to talk of CaryFs, Miss Vanhorn, mademoiselle, the half- 
house — anything and everything which possessed no 
real importance, and did not bear upon the subject be- 
tween them. He answered her in his brief fashion. If 
she wished to pad the dangerous edges of the day with a 
few safe conventionalities, he had no objection ; women 
would be conventional on a raft in mid-ocean. The aft- 



323 ANNE. 

ernoon moved on toward sunset. He thought the con- 
test was over, that although she might still make objec- 
tion, at heart she had yielded; and he was not unwilling 
to rest. Wliy should they hurry ? The whole of life 
was before them. 

As night fell, they reached Stringhampton Junction, 
and the great engine stopped again. The passengers hast- 
ened hungrily into the little supper-room, and Heathcote 
urged mademoiselle to accompany him thither, and taste 
a cup of that compound found at railway stations called 
Japan tea. Jeanne -Armande looked half inclined to 
accept this invitation, but Anne, answering for both, said : 
" No ; we have all we need in our basket. You can, how- 
ever, if you will be so kind, send us some tea." This de- 
cision being in accordance with Jeanne -Armande's own 
rules, she did not like to contravene it, in spite of the 
satisfaction it would have given her to enter the supper- 
room with her decorous brown glove reposing upon such 
a coat sleeve. Heathcote bowed, and went out. Anne 
watched his figure entering the doorway of the brightly 
lighted supper-room, which was separated by a wide space 
from the waiting train. Then she turned. 

"Mademoiselle," she said, her burning haste contrast- 
ing with her clear calm utterance of the moment before, 
"I beg you to leave this train with me without one in- 
stant's delay. The peace of my whole life depends upon 
it." 

"What ca7i you mean ?" said the bewildered teacher. 

"I can not explain now, I will, later. But if you 
have any regard for me, any compassion, come at once." 

"But our bags, our — " 

"I will take them all." 

"And our trunks — they are checked through to Val- 
ley City. Will there be time to take them off?" said 
Jeanne-Armande, confusedly. Then, with more clear- 
ness, "But why should we go at all ? I have no money 
to spend on freaks." 

"This is Stringhampton Junction; we can cross here 
to the northern road, as you originally intended, ''explain- 
ed Anne, rapidly. "All the additional expense I will 




^' IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE." 



ANNE. 329 

pay. Dear mademoiselle, have- pity on me, and come. 
Else I shall go alone." 

The voice was eloquent ; Jeanne-Armande rose. Anne 
hurried her through the almost empty car toward the rear 
door. 

"But where are we going ?" 

"Out of the light,'' answered Anne. 

They climbed down in the darkness on the other side 
of the train, and Anne led. the way across the tracks at 
random, until they reached a safe country road-side be- 
yond, and felt the soft grass under their feet. 

' ' Where are we going V said the Frenchwoman again, 
almost in tears. "Monsieur Heathcote — what will he 
think of us?" 

"It is from him I am fleeing," replied Anne. "And 
now we must find the cross-road train. Do you know 
where it is ?" 

" It is, or should be, over there," said Jeanne-Armande, 
waving her umbrella tragically. 

But she followed: the young girl had turned leader 
now. 

They found the cross-road train, entered, and took their 
seats. And then Anne feverishly counted the seconds, 
expecting with each one to see Heathcote's face at the 
door. But the little branch train did not wait for supper ; 
the few passengers were already in their places, and at 
last the bell rang, and the engine started northward, 
but so slowly that Anne found herself leaning forward, 
as though to hasten its speed. Then the Avheels began 
to turn more rapidly — clank, clank, past the switches; 
rumble, rumble, over the bridge ; by the dark line of the 
wood-pile; and then onward into the dark defiles of the 
mountains. They were away. 



330 ANNE. 



Chapter XXI. 

"How heavy do I journey on the way 

When what I seek, my weary travel's end, 
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 

' Thus far the miles are measured from my friend.' " 

— Shakspeare' s Sonnets. 

In the mean time Ward Heatlicote was in the supper- 
room. After selecting- the best that tlie little country- 
station afforded, and feeing a servant to take it across 
to the train, he sat down to eat a nondescript meal with 
some hunger. 

The intelligent mulatto boy who carried the waiter 
consumed as many minutes as possible in his search for 
"the two ladies in that car, on the right-hand side oppo- 
site the fourth window," who, plainly, were not there. 
He had the fee in his pocket, there would not be anoth- 
er, and the two "suppers" were paid for. It was decided- 
ly a case for delay. He waited, therefore, until the warn- 
ing bell rang, and he was then encountered in hot haste 
hurrying to meet his patron, the waiter still balanced 
on his shoulder. 

"No ladies there, sah. Looked everywhere fur 'em, 
sah." 

There was no time for further parley. Heatlicote 
hurried forward, and the train started. They must be 
there, of course ; probably the cars had been changed or 
moved forw^ard while the train was w^aiting. But al- 
thougli he went from end to end of the long file of car- 
riages, he found no one. They were under full headway 
now; the great engine did not need gradual beginnings. 
He could not bring himself to ask questions of the pass- 
engers whose faces he remembered in the same car ; they 
would open upon him a battery of curiosity in return. 
He went to the rear door, opened it, and looked out ; the 
two grime-encircled eyes of a brakeman met his gravely. 



ANNE. 331 

He stepped outside, closed the door, and entered into con- 
versation with the eyes. 

Yes, he seed two ladies get off ; they come out this here 
end door, and climbed down on the wrong- side. Seem- 
ed to be in a hurry. Didn't know where they went. 
Called after 'em that that warn't the way to the dining- 
room, and the young one said, "Thanks, "but didn't say 
no more. Was they left behind ? No, train didn't stop 
this side of Valley City; but the gentleman could tele- 
graph back, and they could come on safe and sound in 
the morning express. 'Twarn't likely they'd gone north 
by the little branch road, was it ? Branch connects at 
Stringhampton for the Northern Line. 

But this suggestion made no impression upon Heath- 
cote. Mademoiselle lived in Valley City; he had seen 
her tickets for Valley City. No, it was some unlooked- 
for mistake or accident. He gave the brakeman a dollar, 
and went back into the car. But everything was gone — 
bags, shawls, basket, cloak, bundle, and umbrella, all the 
miscellaneous possessions with Avhich mademoiselle was 
accustomed to travel; there had been, then, deliberation 
enough to collect them all. He sat down perplexed, and 
gradually the certainty stole coldly over him that Anne 
had fled. It must be this. 

For it was no freak of the Frenchwoman's; she had 
been too much pleased with his escort to forego it willing- 
ly. He was deeply hurt. And deeply surprised. Had 
he not followed her to ask her to be his wife ? (This 
was not true, but for the moment he thought it was.) 
Was this a proper response ? 

Never before had he received such a rebuff, and after 
brooding over it an hour in the dismal car, it grew into 
an insult. His deeper feelings were aroused. Under his 
indolence he had a dominant pride, even arrogance of 
nature, which would have astonished many who thought 
they knew him. Whether his words had or had not been 
the result of impulse, now that they were spoken, they 
were worthy of at least respect. He grew more angry as 
the minutes passed, for be was so deeply hurt that he took 
refuge in anger. To be so thwarted and played upon 



332 ANNE. 

— he, a man of the world — by a young girl; a young 
girl regarding whom, too, there had sprung up in his 
heart almost the only real faith of his life ! He had be- 
lieved in that face, had trusted those violet eyes, he did 
not know how unquestioningly until now. And then, 
feeling something very like moisture coming into his 
own eyes, he rose, angry over his weakness, went for- 
ward to the smoking car, lit a cigar, and savagely tried 
to think of other things. A pretty fool he was to be on 
a night train in the heart of Pennsylvania, going no one 
knew whither. 

But, in spite of himself, his mind stole back to Anne. 
She was so different from the society women with whom 
he had always associated ; she had so plainly loved 
him. Poor, remorseful, conscientious, struggling, faith- 
ful heart! Why had she fled from him ? It did not oc- 
cur to him that she was fleeing from herself. 

He arrived at Valley City at eleven o'clock, and had 
the very room with gaudy carpet he had pictured to him- 
self. The next morning, disgusted with everything and 
out of temper as he was, he yet so far postponed his re- 
turn journey as to make inquiries concerning schools for 
girls — one in particular, in which a certain Mademoiselle 
Pitre had been teaching French and music for several 
years. The clerk thought it must be the "Young Ladies' 
Seminary." Heathcote took down the address of this es- 
tablishment, ordered a carriage, and drove thither, in- 
quiring at the door if Mademoiselle Pitre had arrived. 

There was no such person there, the maid answered. 
No ; he knew that she had not yet arrived. But when 
was she expected ? 

The maid (who admired the stranger) did not take it 
upon herself to deny his statement, but went away, and 
returned with the principal. Professor Adolphus Bittin- 
ger. Professor Bittinger was not acquainted with Made- 
moiselle Pitre. Their instructress in the French language 
was named Blanchard, and was already there. Heath- 
cote then asked if there were any other young ladies' 
seminaries in Valley City, and was told (loftily) that there 
were not. No schools where French was taught ? There 



ANNE. 333 

might be, the professor thought, one or two small estab- 
lishments for day scholars. The visitor wrote down the 
new addresses, and drove away to visit four day schools 
in succession, sending a ripple of curiosity down the 
benches, and exciting a flutter in the breasts of four 
French teachers, who came in person to answer the inqui- 
ries of monsieur. One of them, a veteran in the profes- 
sion, who had spent her life in asking about the loaf 
made by the distant one-eyed relative of the baker, an- 
swered decidedly that there was no such person in Val- 
ley City. "Monsieur" was beginning to think so him- 
self; but having now the fancy to exhaust all the possi- 
bilities, he visited the infant schools, and a private class, 
and at two o'clock returned to the hotel, having seen al- 
together about five hundred young Americans in frocks, 
from five years old to seventeen. 

According to the statement of the little shop-keeper at 
Lancaster, mademoiselle had been teaching in Valley City 
for a number of years: there remained, then, the chance 
that she was in a private family as governess, Heathcote 
lingered in Valley City three days longer on this gover- 
ness chance. He ate three more dinners in the comfort- 
less dining-room, slept three more nights in the gaudy 
bedroom, and was at the raihvay station five times each 
day, to wit, at the hours w^hen the trains arrived from the 
east. If they had waited at Stringhampton until he had 
had time to return to New York, they would be coming on 
now. But no one came. The fourth day opened w4th 
dull gray rain ; the smoke of the manufactories hung over 
the valley like a pall. In the dining-room there was a 
sour odor of fresh paint, and from the window he could see 
only a line of hacks, the horses standing in the rain with 
drooping heads, Avhile the drivers, in a row against an op- 
posite wall, looked, in their long oil-skin coats, as though 
they were drawm up there in their black shrouds to be 
shot. In a fit of utter disgust he rang for his bill, or- 
dered a carriage, and drove to the station : he would take 
the morning train for New York. 

Yet when the carriage was dismissed, he let the ex- 
press roll aw^ay without him, while he walked to and fro, 



334 ANNE. 

waiting" for an incoming train. The train was behind time ; 
when it did come, there was no one among its passengers 
whom he had ever seen before. With an anathema upon 
his own folly, he took the day accommodation eastward. 
He would return to New York without any more senseless 
delays. And then at Stringhampton Junction he was the 
only person who alighted. His idea was to make in- 
quiries there. He spent two hours of that afternoon in the 
rain, under a borrowed umbrella, and three alone in the 
waiting-room. No such persons as he described had been 
seen at Stringhampton, and as the settlement was small, 
and possessed of active curiosity, there remained no room 
for doubt. There was the chance that they had followed 
him to Valley City an hour later on a freight train with 
car attached, in which case he had missed them. And 
there was the other chance that they had gone northward 
by the branch road. But why should they go northward ? 
They lived in Valley City, or near there; their tickets 
w-ere marked "Valley City." The branch led to the 
Northern Line, by which one could reach Chicago, St. 
Louis, Omaha, the wilderness, but not Valley City. The 
gentleman might go up as far as the Northern Line, and 
inquire of the station agent there, suggested the String- 
hampton ticket-seller, who balanced a wooden tooth-pick 
in his mouth lightly, like a cigarette. But the gentle- 
man, who had already been looking up the narrow line of 
wet rails under his umbrella for an hour, regarded the 
speaker menacingly, and turned away with the ironical 
comment in his own mind that the Northern Line and 
its station agent might be — what amounted to Calvinized 
— before he sought them. 

The night express came thundering along at midnight. 
It bore away the visitor. Stringhampton saw him no 
more. 

In the mean time Anne and her companion had ridden 
on during the night, and the younger woman had ex- 
plained to the elder as well as she could the cause of 
her sudden action. ' ' It was not right that I should hear 
or that he should speak such words." 

"He had but little time in which to speak them," 



ANNE. 335 

said Jeanne- Armande, stiffly. "He spent most of the 
day with me. But, in any case, why run away ? Why 
could you not have repelled him quietly, and with the 
proper dignity of a lady, and yet remained where you 
were, comfortably, and allowed me to remain as well ?" 

"I could not," said Anne. Then, after a moment, 
"Dear mademoiselle," she added, "do not ask me any 
more questions. I have done wrong, and I have been 
very, very unhappy. It is over now, and with your help 
I hope to have a long winter of quiet and patient labor. 
I am grateful to you; you do not know how grateful. 
Save those far away on the island, you seem to me now 
the only friend I have on earth." Her voice broke. 

Jeanne- Armande's better feelings were touched. ' ' My 
poor child !" she said, pityingly. 

And then Anne laid her head down upon the French- 
woman's shoulder, and sobbed as if her heart would break. 

They reached Weston the next day. The journey 
was ended. 

Mademoiselle selected new lodgings, in a quarter which 
overlooked the lake. She never occupied the same rooms 
two seasons in succession, lest she should be regarded as 
"an old friend," and expected to make concessions ac- 
cordingly. On the second day she called ceremoniously 
upon the principal of the school, sending in her old-fash- 
ioned glazed card, with her name engraved upon it, to- 
gether with a minute "Paris" in one corner. To this im- 
portant personage she formally presented her candidate, 
endowing her with so large a variety of brilliant qualities 
and accomplishments that the candidate was filled with 
astonishment, and came near denying them, had she not 
been prevented by the silent meaning pressure of a gaiter 
that divined her intention, and forbade the revelation. 
Fortunately an under-teacher was needed, and half an 
hour later Anne went away, definitely, although at a very 
small salary, engaged. 

She went directly home, locked her door, took paper 
and pen, and began to write. "Dear Rast," she wrote. 
Then, with a flood of remorseful affection, "Dear, dear 
Rast." Her letter was a long one, without break or hes- 



336 ANNE. 

itation. She told him all save names, and asked him to 
forgive her. If he still loved her and wished her to be 
his wife, she was ready; in truth, she seemed almost to 
urge the marriage, that is, if he still loved her. When 
the letter was completed she went out and placed it in a 
letter-box with her own hands, coming home with a con- 
science more free. She had done what she could. The 
letter was sent to the island, where Rast still was when 
she had heard from him the last time before leaving 
Caryl's; for only seven days had passed since then. 
They seemed seven years. 

A day later she wrote to Miss Lois, telling of Miss Van- 
horn's action, her new home and change of position. She 
said nothing of her letter to Rast or the story it told; she 
left that to him to relate or not as he pleased. In all 
things he should be now her master. 

When this second letter was sent, she asked herself 
whether she could write to Helen. But instantly the 
feeling came surging over her that she could not. In ad- 
dition there was the necessity of keeping her new abode 
hidden. No one knew were mademoiselle was, and the 
younger woman had now the benefit of that carefully 
woven mystery. She was safe. She must not disturb 
that safety. 

To one other person slie felt that she must write, name- 
ly, Miss Vanhorn. Harsh as had been the treatment she 
had received, it came from her mother's aunt. She 
wrote, therefore, briefly, stating that she had obtained a 
teacher's plp.ce, but without saying where it was. This 
letter, inclosed in another envelope, was sent to a friend 
of Jeanne- Armande in Boston, and mailed from that city. 
Anne had written that a letter sent to the Boston address, 
which she inclosed, would be immediately forwarded to 
her. But no reply came. Old Katharine never forgave. 

The school opened; the young teacher had a class of 
new scholars. To her also were given the little brothers 
who were allowed to mingle with the flock until they 
reached the age of eleven, when they were banished to 
rougher trials elsewhere ; to these little boys she taught 
Latin grammar, and the various pursuits in the imper- 



ANNE. 337 

feet tense of those two well-known grammar worthies, 
Caius and Balbus. Jeanne- Armande had not failed to 
proclaim far and wide her candidate's qualifications as to 
vocal music. "A jiupil of Belzini," she remarked, with 
a stately air, ' ' was not often to be obtained so far inland." 
The principal, a clear-headed Western woman, with a 
keen sense of humor, x)erceived at once (although smiling 
at it) the value of the phrase. It was soon in circulation. 
And it was understood that at Christmas-time the pupil 
of Belzini, who was not often to be obtained so far inland, 
would assume charge of the music class, and lift it to a 
plane of Italian perfection hitherto unattained. 

The autumn opened. Anne, walking on the lake shore 
at sunset, saw the vessels steal out from i)ort one by one, 
and opening white sails, glide away in the breeze of 
evening silently as spirits. Then came the colored leaves. 
The town, even in its meanest streets, was now so beau- 
tiful that the wonder vfas that the people did not leave 
their houses, and live out-of-doors altogether, merely to 
gaze ; every leaf was a flower, and brighter than the 
brightest blossom. Then came a wild storm, tearing the 
splendor from the branches in a single night ; in the 
morning, November rain was falling, and all was deso- 
late and bare. But after this, the last respite, came In- 
dian sumjiier. 

If there is a time when the American of to-day recalls 
the red-skinned men who preceded him in this land he 
now calls his own, it is during these few days of stillness 
and beauty which bear the name of the vanished race. 
Work is over in the fields, they are ready for their win- 
ter rest ; the leaves are gone, the trees are ready too. 
The last red apple is gathered ; men and the squirrels 
together have gleaned the last nut. There is nothing 
more to be done ; and he who with a delicate imagination 
walks abroad, or drives slowly along country roads, finds 
himself thinking, in the stillness, of those who roved over 
this same ground not many years ago, and tardily gath- 
ering in at this season their small crops of corn beside 
the rivers, gave to the beautiful golden-purple-hued days 
the name they bear. Through the naked woods he sees 

22 



338 ANx\E. 

them stealing, bow in hand ; on the stream he sees their 
birch-bark canoes ; the smoke in the atmosphere must 
surely rise from their hidden camp fires. .They have 
come back to their old haunts from the happy hunting 
grounds for these few golden days. Is it not the Indian 
summer ? The winter came early, with whirling snow 
followed by bitter cold. Ice formed ; navigation was over 
until spring. Anne had heard from Dr. Gaston and Miss 
Lois, but not from East. For East had gone ; he had start- 
ed on his preliminary journey through the western coun- 
try, where he proposed to engage in business enterprises, 
although their nature remained as yet vague. The chap- 
lain wrote that a letter addressed to Erastus in her hand- 
writing had been brought to him the day after the youth's 
departure, and that he had sent it to the frontier town which 
was to be his first stopping-place. Erastus had written 
to her the day before his departure, but the letter had of 
course gone to CaryFs. Miss Vanhorn, without doubt, 
would forward it to her niece. The old man wrote with 
an effort to appear cheerful, but he confessed that he 
missed his two children sadly. The boys were well, and 
Angelique was growing pretty. In another year it would 
be better that she should be with her sister; it was some- 
what doubtful whether Miss Lois understood the child. 

Miss Lois's letter was emphatic, beginning and ending 
with her opinion of Miss Vanhorn in the threefold char- 
acter of grandaunt, Christian, and woman. She was 
able to let out her feelings at last, unhindered by the now- 
withdrawn allowance. The old bitter resentment against 
the woman who had slighted William Douglas found 
vent, and the characterization was withering and pictur- 
esque. When she had finished the arraignment, trial, 
and execution, at least in words, she turned at last to the 
children ; and here it was evident that her pen paused and 
went more slowly. The boys, she hoped (rather as a last 
resort) , were ' ' good-hearted. " She had but little trouble, 
comparatively, with Tita now ; the child was very attent- 
ive to her lessons, and had been over to Pere Michaux at 
his hermitage almost every other day. The boys went 
sometimes; and Erastus had been kind enough to accom- 



ANNE. 



339 



pany the children, to see that they were not drowned. 
And then, dropping the irk?,">me theme, Miss Lois dipped 
her pen in romance, and filled the remainder of her let- 
ter with praise of golden-haired East, not so much because 
she herself loved him, as because Anne did. For the old 
maid believed with her whole heart in this young atfec- 
iion which had sprung into being under her fostering 
care, and looked forward to the day when the two should 
kneel together before Dr. Gaston in the little fort chapel, 
to receive the solemn benediction of the marriage service, 
as the happiest remaining in her life on earth. Anne 
read the fervid words with troubled heart. If Rast felt 
all that Miss Lois said he felt, if he had borne as impa- 
tiently as Miss Lois described their present partial sepa- 
ration, even when he was sure of her love, how would he 
suffer when he read her letter ! She looked forward fe- 
verishly to the arrival of his answer ; but none came. The 
delay was hard to bear. 

Dr. Gaston wrote a second time. East had remained 
but a day at the first town, and not liking it, had gone 
forward. Not having heard from Anne, he sent, inclosed 
to the chaplain's care, a letter for her. With nervous 
haste she opened it ; but it contained nothing save an ac- 
count of his journey, with a description of the frontier 
village — "shanties, drinking saloons, tin cans, and a 
grave-yard already. This will never do for a home for us. 
I shall push on farther. " The tone of the letter was affec- 
tionate, as sure as ever of her love. East had always 
been sure of that. She read the pages sadly ; it seemed 
as if she was willfully deceiving him. Where was her let- 
ter, the letter that told all ? She wrote to the postmaster 
of the first town, requesting him to return it. After some 
delay, she received answer that it had been sent westward 
to another town, which the person addressed, namely, ' 
Erastus Pronando, had said should be his next stopping- 
place. But a second letter from East, sent also to the 
chaplain's care, had mentioned passing through that very 
town without stopping — "it was such an infernal den"; 
and again Anne wrote, addressing the second postmaster, 
and asking for the letter. This postmaster replied, afteff- 



340 



ANNE. 



some tardiness, owing to his conflicting" engagements as 
politician, hunter, and occapi?,vially miner, that the letter 
described had been forwardea to the Dead-letter Office. 
This correspondence occupied October and November; 
and during this time East was still roaming through the 
West, writing frequently, but sending no permanent ad- 
dress. Now rumors of a silver mine attracted him ; now 
it was a scheme for cattle-raising ; now speculation in lands 
along the line of the coming railway It was impossible 
to follow him — and in truth he did not wish to be follow- 
ed. He w^as tasting his first liberty. He meant to look 
around the world awhile before choosing his home : not 
long, only awhile. Still, awhile. 

The chaplain added a few lines of his own when he 
sent these letters to Anne. Winter had seized them; 
they were now fast fettered ; the mail came over the ice. 
Miss Lois was kind, and sometimes came up to regulate 
his housekeeping; but nothing went as formerly. His 
coffee was seldom good ; and he found himself growing 
peevish — at least his present domestic, a worthy widow 
named McGlathery, had remarked upon it. But Anne 
must not think the domestic was in fault ; he had reason 
to believe that she meant well even when she addressed 
him on the subject of his own short-comings. And here 
the chaplain's old humor peeped through, as he added, 
quaintly, that poor Mistress McGlathery's health was far 
from strong, she being subject to "inward tremblings," 
which tremblings she had several times described to him 
with tears in her eyes, while he had as often recom- 
mended peppermint and ginger, but without success ; on 
the contrary, she always went away with a motion of the 
skirts and a manner as to closing the door which, the 
chaplain tho'ught, betokened offense. Anne smiled over 
these letters, and then sighed. If she could only be w4th 
him again — with them all ! She dreamed at night of the 
old man in his arm-chair, of Miss Lois, of the boys, of Tita 
curled in her furry corner, which she had transferred, in 
spite of Miss Lois's remonstrances, to the sitting-room of 
the church-house. Neither Tita nor Pere Michaux had 
written ; she wondered over their new silence. 



ANNE. 341 

Anne's pupils had, of course, exhaustively weighed 
and sifted the new teacher, and had decided to like her. 
Some of them decided to adore her, and expressed their 
adoration in bouquets, autograph albums, and various 
articles in card-board supposed to be of an ornamental 
nature. They watched her guardedly, and were jeal- 
ous of every one to whom she spoke; she little knew 
what a net- work of plots, observation, mines and coun- 
termines, surrounded her as patiently she toiled through 
each long monotonous day. These adorations of school- 
girls, although but unconscious rehearsals of the future, 
are yet real while they last ; Anne's adorers went sleep- 
less if by chance she gave especial attention to any other 
puiDil. The adored one meanwhile did not notice these lit- 
tle intensities ; her mind was absorbed by other thoughts. 

Four days before Christmas two letters came ; one was 
her own to Rast, returned at last from the Dead-letter 
Office ; the other was from Miss Lois, telling of the seri- 
ous illness of Dr. Gaston. The old chaplain had had a 
stroke of paralysis, and Rast had been summoned ; fortu- 
nately his last letter had been from St. Louis, to which 
place he had unexpectedly returned, and therefore they 
had been able to reach him by message to Chicago and a 
telegrai)hic dispatch. Dr. Gaston wished to see him ; the 
youth had been his w^ard as well as almost child, and there 
were business matters to be arranged between them, 
x^nne's tears fell as she read of her dear old teacher's dan- 
ger, and the impulse came to her to go to him at once. 
Was she not his child as well as Rast ? But the impulse 
was checked by the remainder of the letter. Miss Lois 
wrote, sadly, that she had tried to keep it from Anne, 
but had not succeeded : since August her small income 
had been much reduced, owing to the failure of a New 
Hampshire bank, and she now found that with all her 
effort tliey could not quite live on what was left. ' ' Very 
nearly, dear child. I think, with thirty dollars, I can 
manage until spring. Then everything will be cheaper. 
I should not have kept it from you if it had not happened 
at the very time of your trouble with that icicked old 
woman, and I did not wish to add to your care. But 



342 ANNE. 

the boys have what is called fine appetites (I wish they 
were not quite so ' fine'), and of course this winter, and 
never before, my provisions were spoiled in my own cel- 
lar." 

Anne had intended to send to Miss Lois all her small 
savings on Christmas-day. She now went to the princi- 
pal of the school, asked that the payment of her salary 
might be advanced, and forwarded all she was able to send 
to the poverty-stricken little household in the church- 
house. That night she wept bitter tears; the old chap- 
lain was dying, and she could not go to him; the children 
were perhaps suffering. For the first time in a life of 
poverty she felt its iron hand crushing her down. Her 
letter to East lay before her ; she could not send it now 
and disturb the last hours on earth of their dear old 
friend. She laid it aside and waited — waited through 
those long hours of dreary suspense which those must bear 
who are distant from the dying beds of their loved 
ones. 

In the mean time East had arrived. Miss Lois wrote 
of the chaplain's joy at seeing him. The next letter con- 
tained the tidings that death had come ; early in the morn- 
ing, peacefully, with scarcely a sigh, the old man's soul 
had passed from earth. Colonel Bryden, coming in soon 
afterward, and looking upon the calm face, had said, 
gently, 

" Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time; 
Say not good-night, but, in some brighter clime, 
Bid me good-morning." 

When Anne knew that the funeral was over, that an- 
other grave had been made under the snow in the little 
military cemetery, and that, with the strange swiftness 
which is so hard for mourning hearts to realize, daily life 
was moving on again in the small island circle where 
the kind old face would be seen no more, she sent her 
letter, the same old letter, unaltered and travel-worn. 
Then she waited. She could not receive her answer be- 
fore the eighth or ninth day. But on the fifth came 
two letters ; on the seventh, three. The first were from 



ANNE. 343 

Miss Lois and Mrs. Bryden ; the others from Tita, Pere 
Michaux, and— East. And the extraordinary tidings they 
brought were these : East had married Tita. The httle 
sister was now his wife. 



Chapter XXII. 



"A slave had long worn a chain upon his ankle. By the order of 
his master it was removed. ' Why dost thou spring aloft and sing, 
slave ? Surely the sun is as fierce and thy burden as heavy as before.' 
The slave repHed : ' Ten times the sun and the burden would seem 
light, now that the chain is removed.' " — From the Arabic. 

Miss Lois's letter was a wail : 

"My poor dear outraged Child,— What can I say to 
you ? There is no use in trying to prepare you for it, 
since you would never conceive such double-dyed black- 
ness of heart ! Tita has run away. She slipped off clan- 
destinely, and they think she has followed Rast, who left 
yesterday on his waj^ back to St. Louis and the West. 
Pere Michaux has followed her, saying that if he found 
them together he should, acting as Tita's guardian, insist 
upon a marriage before he returned ! He feels himself re- 
sponsible for Tita., he says, and paid no attention when I 
asked him if no one was to be responsible for you ! My 
poor child, it seems that I have been blind all along; I 
never dreamed of what was going on. The little minx 
deceived me completely. I thought her so much im- 
proved, so studious, while all the time she was meeting 
Erastus, or planning to meet him, with a skill far beyond 
my comprehension. All last summer, they tell me, she 
was with him constantly ; those daily journeys to Pere 
Michaux's island were for that purpose, while /supposed 
they were for prayers. What Erastus thought or meant, 
no one seenis to know ; but they all combined in declaring 
that the child (child no longer!) was deeply in love with 
him, and that everybody saw it save me. My New Eng- 
land blood could not, I am proud to say, grasp it ! You 
know, my poor darling, the opinion I have always had 
concerning Tita's mother, who slyly and artfully in- 



344 AXNE. 

veig-Icd your honored father into a trap. Tita has there- 
fore but followed in her mother's footsteps. 

"That Erastus has ever cared, or cares now in the 
least, for her, save as a plaything, I w^ill never believe. 
But Pere Michaux is like a mule for stubbornness, as you 
know, and I fear he will marry them in any case. He 
did not seem to think of you at all, and when I said, 
'Anne will die of grief!' he only smiled — yes, syniled — 
and Frenchly shrugged his shoulders! My poor child, 
I have but little hope, because if he appeals to Erastus's 
honor, what can the boy do ? He is the soul of honor. 

"I can hardly write, my brain has been so overturned. 
To think that Tita should have outwitted us all at her age, 
and gained her point over everything, over you and over 
Rast — poor, poor Rast, who will be so miserably sacrificed ! 
I will write again to-morrow ; but if Pere Michaux carries 
out his strange Jesuitical design, you will hear from him 
probably before you can hear again from me. Bear up, 
my dearest Anne. I acknowledge that, so far, I have 
found it difficult to see the Divine purpose in this, unless 
indeed it be to inform us that w^e are all but cinders and 
ashes; which, however, I for one have long known." 

Mrs. Bryden's letter : 

" Dear Anne, — I feel drawn toward you more closely 
since the illness and death of our dear Dr. Gaston, who 
loved you so tenderly, and talked so much of you during 
his last days with us. It is but a short time since I wrote 
to you, giving some of the messages he left, and telling of 
his peaceful departure ; but now I feel that I must write 
again upon a subject which is painful, yet one upon 
which you should have, I think, all the correct details 
immediately. Miss Hinsdale is no doubt writing to you 
also; but she does not know all. She has not perceived, 
as we have, the gradual approaches to this catastrophe 
— I can call it by no other name. 

"When you went away, your half-sister was a child. 
With what has seemed lightning rapidity she has grown 
to w^omanhood, and for months it has been plainly evi- 
dent that she was striving in every way to gain and hold 
the attention of Erastus Pronando. He lingered here 



ANNE. 345 

almost all summer, as you will remember; Tita follow- 
ed liiini everywhere. Miss Hinsdale, absorbed in the cares 
of housekeeping, knew nothing- of it ; but daily, on one 
pretext or another, they were together. Whether Eras- 
tus was interested I have no means of knowing ; but that 
Tita is now extremely pretty in a certain style, and that 
she was absorbed in him, we could all see. It was not 
our affair ; yet we might have felt called upon to make it 
ours if it had not been for Pere Michaux. He was her 
constant guardian. 

' ' Erastus went away yesterday in advance of the mail- 
train. He bade us all good-by, and I am positive that he 
had no plan, not even a suspicion of w^hatwas to follow. 
We have a new mail-carrier this winter, Denis being con- 
fined to his cabin with rheumatism. Tita must have 
slipped away unperceived, and joined this man at dusk 
on the ice a mile or two below the island ; her track was 
found this morning. Erastus expected to join the mail- 
train to-day, and she knew it, of course; the probability 
is, therefore, that they are now together. It seems hard- 
ly credible that so young a head could have arranged its 
plans so deftly ; yet it is certainly true that, even if East 
wished to bring her back, he could not do so immediately, 
not until the up-train passed them. Pere Michaux start- 
ed after them this morning, travelling in his own sledge. 
He thinks (it is better that you should know it, Anne) that 
Erastus is fond of Tita, and that only his engagement to 
you has held him back. Now that the step has been taken, 
he has no real doubt but that Past himself will wish to 
marry her, and without delay. 

"All this will seem very strange to you, my dear child ; 
but I trust it will not be so hard a blow as Miss Hins- 
dale apprehends. Pere Michaux told me this morning in 
so many words: 'x4-nne has never loved the boy with 
anything more than the affection of childhood. It will 
be for her a release. ' He was convinced of this, and went 
off on his journey with what looked very much like glad- 
ness. I hope, with all my heart, that he is right. " Then, 
with a few more words of kindly friendship, the letter 
ended. 



34G ANNE. 

The other envelope bore the rude pen-and-ink postmark 
of a Northwestern lumber settlement, where travellei's 
coming down from the North in the winter over the ice 
and snow met the pioneer railway, which had pushed its 
track to that point before the blockade of the cold began. 

Tita's letter : 

" Deerest Sister, — You will not I am sure blaime your 
little Tita for following the impulse of her hart. Since 
you were hear I have grown up and it is the truth that 
East has loved me for yeers of his own accord and be- 
cause he could not help it — deerest sister who can. But 
he never ment to break his word to you and he tryed not 
to but w^as devowered by his love for me and you will for- 
give him deerest sister will you not since there is no more 
hope for you as we were married by Pere Michaux an 
hour ago who approved of all and has hartily given us 
his bennydiction. Since my spiritual directeur has no 
reproche you will not have enny I am sure and remain 
your loving sister, Angelique Pronando." 

"P. S. We go to Chicago to-day. Enny money for 
close for me could be sent to the Illinois Hotel, where 
my deerest husband says we are to stay. A. P." 

Pere Michaux's letter : 

"Dear Anne, — It is not often that I speak so bluntly 
as I shall speak now. In marrying, this morning, your 
half-sister Angelique to Erastus Pronando I feel that I 
have done you a great service. You did not love him with 
the real love of a nature like yours — the love that will 
certainly come to you some day; perhaps has already 
come. I have ahvays known this, and, ni accordance with 
it, did all I could to prevent the engagement originally. 
I failed ; but this day's work has made up for the failure. 

' ' Angelique has grown into a woman. She is also very 
beautiful, after a peculiar fashion of her own. All the 
strength of her nature, such as it is, is concentrated upon 
the young man who is now her husband. From child- 
hood she has loved him; she was bitterly jealous of you 
even before you went away. I have been aware of this, 
but until lately I was not sure of Rast. Her increasing 
beautv, however, added to her intense absorbed interest in 



ANNE. 347 

him, has conquered. Seeing this, I have watched with 
satisfaction the events of the past summer, and have even 
assisted somewhat (and with a clear conscience) in their 
development. 

'' Erastus, even if you had loved him, Anne, could not 
have made you happy. And neither would you have 
made him happy; for he is quick-witted, and he would 
have inevitably, and in spite of all your tender humility, 
my child, discovered j^our intellectual superiority', and in 
time would have angrily resented it. For he is vain ; his 
nature is light; he needs adulation in order to feel con- 
tented. On the other hand, he is kind-hearted and affec- 
tionate, and to Tita will be a demi-god always. The 
faults that would have been death to you, she will never 
see. She is therefore the fit wife for him. 

"You will ask, Does he love her? I answer, Yes. 
When he came back to the island, and found her so dif- 
ferent, the same elfish little creature, but now strangely 
pretty, openly fond of him, following him everywhere, 
with the words of a child but the eyes of a woman, he 
was at first surprised, then annoyed, then amused, inter- 
ested, and finally fascinated. He struggled against it. 
I give him the due of justice— he did struggle. But Tita 
was always there. He went away hurriedly at the last, 
and if it had not been for Dr. Gaston's illness and his 
own recall to the island, it might not have gone farther. 
Tita understood this as well as I did , she made the most 
of her time. Still, I am quite sure that he had no sus- 
picion she intended to follow him ; the plan was all her 
own. She did follow him. And I followed her. I 
caught up with them that very day at sunset, and an 
hour ago I married them. If you have not already for- 
given me, Anne, you will do so some day. I have no 
fear. I can wait. I shall go on with them as far as 
Chicago, and then, after a day or two, I shall return to 
the island. Do not be disturbed by anything Miss Lois 
may write. She has been blindly mistaken from the be- 
ginning. In truth, there is a vein of obstinate weakness 
on some subjects in that otherwise estimable woman, for 
which I have always been at a loss to account." 



348 ANNE. 

All, wise old priest, there are some things too deep for 
even you to know ! 

Rast's letter was short. It touched Anne more than 
any of the others : 

"What must you think of me, Annet? Forgive me, 
and forget me. I did try. But would you have cared 
for a man who had to try ? When I think of you I scorn 
myself. But she is the sweetest, dearest, most winning 
little creature the world ever saw; and my only excuse 
is that— I love her. E. P." 

These few lines, in which the young husband made 
out no case for himself, sought no shield in the little 
bride's own rashness, but simply avowed his love, and 
took all the responsibility upon himself, pleased the eld- 
er sister. It was manly. She was glad that Tita had a 
defender. 

She had read these last letters standing in the centre of 
her room, Jeanne- Armande anxiously watching her from 
the open door. The French Avoman had poured out a glass 
of water, and had it in readiness ; she thought that per- 
haps Anne was going to faint. With no distinct idea of 
what had happened, she had lived in a riot of conjecture 
for two days. 

But instead of fainting, Anne, holding the letters in 
her hand, turned and looked at her. 

"Well, dear, will you go to bed ?" she said, solicitously. 

" Why should I go to bed ?" 

"I thought perhaps you had heard — had heard bad 
news." 

"On the contrary," replied Anne, slowly and gravely, 
"I am afraid, mademoiselle, that the ncAvs is good — even 
very good." 

For her heart had flown out of its cage and upward as 
a freed bird darts up in the sky. The bond, on her side 
at least, was gone ; she was free. Noiv she would live a 
life of self-abnegation and labor, but without inward 
thralldom. Women had lived such lives before she was 
born, women would live such lives after she was dead. 
She would be one of the sisterhood, and coveting nothing 
of the actual joy of love, she would cherish only the ideal, 



ANNE. 



34S 



an altar-light within, burning forever. The cares of each 
day were as nothing now* she was free, free ! 

In her exaltation she did not recognize as wrong the 
opposite course she had intended to follow before the 
lightning fell, namely, uniting herself to one man while 
so deeply loving another. She was of so humble and 
unconscious a spirit regarding herself that it had not 
seemed to her that the inner feelings of her heart wouM 
be of consequence to East, so long as she was the obedi- 
ent, devoted, faithful wife she was determined with all 
her soul to be. For she had not that imaginative egotism 
which so many women possess, which makes them spend 
their lives in illusion, weaving round their every thought 
and word an importance which no one else can discern. 
According to these women, there are a thousand innocent 
acts which "he" (lover or husband) "would not for an 
instant allow," although to the world at large "he" ap- 
pears indifferent enough. They go through long turmoil, 
from which they emerge triumphantly, founded upon 
some hidden jealousy which "he" is supposed to feel, so 
well hidden generally, and so entirely supposed, that i3er- 
sons with less imagination never observe it. But after 
all, smile as we may, it is only those who are in most re- 
spects happy and fortunate wives who car) so entertain 
themselves. For cold unkindness, or a harsh and brutal 
word, will rend this filmy fabric of imagination immedi- 
ately, never to be rewoven again. 

Anne wrote to Rast, repeating the contents of the old 
letter, which had been doomed never to reach him. She 
asked him to return the wanderer unopened when it 
was forwarded to him from the island ; there was a depth 
of feeling in it which it was not necessary now that he 
should see. She told him that her own avowal should 
lift from him all the weight of wrong-doing ; she had first 
gone astray. "We were always like brother and sister, 
Rast; I see it now. It is far better as it is." 

A few days later Pere Michaux wrote again, and in- 
closed a picture of Tita. The elder sister gazed at it curi- 
ously. This was not Tita ; and yet those were her eyes, 
and that the old well-remembered mutinous expression 



350 ANNE. 

still lurking about the little mouth. Puzzled, she took 
it to mademoiselle. "It is my little sister," she said. 
"Do you think it pretty ?" 

Jeanne- A rmande put on her spectacles, and held it 
frowningly at different distances from her eyes. 

" It is odd, " she said at last. ' * Ye — es, it is pretty too. 
But, for a child's face, remarkable." 

' ' She is not a child. " 

"Not a child?" 

"No; she is married," replied Anne, smiling. 

Mademoiselle i)ursed up her lips, and examined the 
jilcture with one eye closed. "After all," she said, "I 
can believe it. The eyes are mature." 

The little bride was represented standing; she leaned 
against a pillar nonchalantly, and outlined on a light 
background, the extreme smallness of her figure was clear- 
ly shown. Her eyes were half veiled by their large droop- 
ing lids and long lashes ; her little oval face looked small, 
like that of a child. HerMress was long, and swei)t over 
the floor with the richness of silk: evidently Pere Mi- 
chaux had not stinted the lavish little hands when they 
made their first purchase of a full-grown woman's attire. 
For the priest had taken upon himself this outlay ; the 
"money for close," of which Tita had written, was pro- 
vided from his purse. He wrote to Anne tliat as he was 
partly responsible for the wedding, he was also responsi- 
ble for the trousseau ; and he returned the money which 
with great difficulty the elder sister had sent. 

"She must be very small," said mademoiselle, musing- 
ly, as they still studied the picture. 

"She is ; she has the most slender little face I ever saw. " 

Tita's head was thrown back as she leaned against the 
pillar; there was a half-smile on her delicate lips; her 
thick hair was still braided childishly in two long braids 
which hung over her shoulders and down on the silken 
skirt behind ; in her small ears were odd long hoops of 
gold, which Pere Michaux had given her, selecting them 
himself on account of their adaptation to her half-Orient- 
al, half -elfin beauty. Her cheeks showed no color ; there 
were brown shadows under her eyes. On her slender 




MISS LOIS SIGHED DEEPLY 



ANNE. 351 

browii hand shone the wedding ring. The picture was 
w^ell executed, and had been carefully tinted under Pere 
Michaux's eye : the old priest knew that it was East's best 
excuse. 

Now that Anne was freed, he felt no animosity toward 
the young husband ; on the contrary, he wished to ad- 
vance his interests in every way that he could. Tita was 
a selfish little creature, yet she adored her husband. She 
Avould have killed herself for him at any moment. But 
first she would have killed him. 

He saw them start for the far West, and then he return- 
ed northward to his island home. Miss Lois, dishearten- 
ed by all that had happened, busied herself in taking care 
of the boys dumbly, and often shook her head at the fire 
when sitting alone with her knitting. She never open- 
ed the old piano now, and she w^as less stringent with 
her Indian servants ; she would even have given up quiet- 
ly her perennial alphabet teaching if Pere Michaux had 
not discovered the intention, and quizzically approved it, 
whereat, of course, she was obliged to go on. In truth, 
the old man did this purposely, having noticed the change 
in his old antagonist. He fell into the habit of coming to 
the church-house more frequently — to teach the boys, he 
said. He did teach the little rascals, and taught them 
well, but he also talked to Miss Lois. The original found- 
ers of the church-house would have been well astonished 
could they have risen from their graves and beheld the 
old priest and the New England w^oman sitting on op- 
posite sides of the fire in the neat shining room, which 
still retained its Puritan air in spite of years, the boys, and 
Episcopal apostasy. 

Regarding Past's conduct. Miss Lois maintained a grim 
silence. The foundations of her faith in life had been 
shaken ; but how could she, supposed to be a sternly prac- 
tical person, confess it to the world — confess that she had 
dreamed like a girl over this broken betrothal ? 

"Do you not see how much happier, freer, she is?" 
the priest would say, after reading one of Anne's letters. 
*' The very tone betrays it." 

Miss Lois sighed deeply, and poked the fire. 



352 ANNE. 

' ' Pooh ! pooh ! Do you want her to be ir/ihappy ?" said 
the okl man. ' ' Suppose that it had been the other way ? 
Why not rejoice as I do over her cheerfulness ?" 

' ' Why not indeed ?" thought Miss Lois. But that stub- 
born old heart of hers would not let her. 

The priest had sent to her also one of the pictures of 
Tita. One day, after his return, he asked for it. She an- 
swered that it was gone. 

"Where?" 

"Into the fire." 

" She can not forgive," he thought, glancing cautious- 
ly at the set face opposite. 

But it was not Tita whom she could not forgive; it was 
the young mother, dead long years before. 

The winter moved on. Anne had taken off her engage- 
ment ring, and now wore in its place a ring given by her 
school-girl adorers, who had requested permission in a for- 
mal note to present one to their goddess. As she had 
refused gems, they had selected the most costly plain gold 
circlet they could find in Weston, spending a long and 
happy Saturday in the quest. ' ' But it is a wedding 
ring, "said the jeweller. 

But why should brides have all the heavy gold ? the 
school-girls wished to know. Other persons could wear 
plain gold rings also if they pleased. 

So they bought the circlet and presented it to Anne 
with beating hearts and cheeks flushed with pleasure, 
humbly requesting, in return, for each a lock of her hair. 
Then ensued a second purchase of lockets for this hair: 
it was well that their extravagant little purses were well 
filled. 

To the school-girls the ring meant one thing, to Anne 
another ; she mentally made it a token of the life she in- 
tended to lead. Free herself, he was not free; Helen 
loved him. Probably, also, he had already forgotten his 
fancy for the lonely girl whom he had seen during those 
few wjeeks at Caryrs. She would live her life out as faith- 
fully as she could, thankful above all things for her free- 
dom. Surely strength would be given her to do this. 
The ring was like the marriage ring of a nun, the token 



ANNE. 353 

of a vow of patience and humility. During all these long 
months she had known no more, heard no more, of her 
companions of that summer than as though they had nev- 
er existed. The newspapers of Weston and the country 
at large were not concerned about the opinions and move- 
ments of the unimportant little circle left behind at Car- 
yl's. Their columns had contained burning words; but 
they were words relating to the great questions which were 
agitating the land from the Penobscot to the Rio Grande. 
Once, in a stray number of the Home Journal, she found 
the following paragraph : ' ' Miss Katharine Vanhorn is in 
Italy at present. It is understood that Miss Vanhorn 
contemplates an extended tour, and will not return to 
this country for several years. Her Hudson Eiver resi- 
dence and her house in the city are both closed." Anne 
no longer hoped for any softening of that hard nature ; yet 
the chance lines hurt her, and gave her a forsaken feel- 
ing all day. 



Chapter XXIII. 

" War ! war ! war ! 
A thunder-cloud in the south in the early spring — 

The launch of a thunder-bolt; and' then, 
With one red flare, the lightning stretched its wing, 
And a rolling echo roused a million men." 

— Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

April. The sound of military music; the sound of 
feet keeping step exactly, and overcoming by its regulari- 
ty the noise of thousands of other feet hurrying on irreg- 
ularly in front of them, abreast of them, and behind them. 
A crowd in the square so dense that no one could pass 
through ; the tree branches above black w^ith boys ; the 
windows all round the four sides filled with heads. And 
everywhere w^omen pressing forward, v^aving handker- 
chiefs, some pallid, some flushed, but all deeply excited, 
forgetful of self, with eyes fixed on the small compact lines 
of military caps close together, moving steadily onward in 
the midst of the accompanying throng. And happy the 
one who had a place in the front tank: how she gazed! 

23 



354 ANNE. 

If a girl, no matter how light of heart and frivolous, a 
silence and soberness came over her for a moment, and 
her eyes grew wistful. If a woman, one who had loved, 
no matter how hard and cold she had grown, a warmer 
heart came hack to her then, and tears rose. What was 
it ? Only a few men dressed in the lioliday uniform these 
towns-people had often seen ; men many of whom they 
knew Avell, together with their shortcomings and weak- 
nesses, whose military airs they had laughed at ; men 
who, taken singly, had neither importance nor inter- 
est. What was it, then, that made the women's eyes 
tearful, and sent the great crowd thronging round and 
after them as though each one had been crowned king ? 
What made the groups on the steps and piazzas of each 
house keep silence after they had passed, and watch them 
as long as they could distinguish the moving lines ? It 
was that these men had made tlie first reply of this town 
to the President's call. It was because these holiday 
soldiers were on their way to real battle-fields, where 
balls would plough through human flesh, and leave 
agony and death behind. The poorest, dullest, soldier 
who was in these ranks from a sense of loyalty, how- 
ever dim and inarticulate it might be, gave all he had : 
martyr or saint never gave more. Not many of the 
gazing people thought of this ; but they did think of death 
by bayonet and ball as the holiday ranks marched by. 

Down through the main street went the little troop, and 
the crowd made a solid wall on tlie sidewalk, and a mov- 
ing guard before and behind. From the high windows 
above, the handkerchiefs of the work-girls fluttered, while 
underneath from the law offices, and below from tlie door- 
ways, men looked out soberly, realizing that this meant 
War indeed — real and near War. 

By another way, down the hill toward the railway, 
station, rattled the wheels of an artillery company ; also 
a little holiday troop, with holiday guns shining bright- 
ly. The men sat- in their places with folded arms; the 
crowd, seeing them, knew them all. They were only 
Miller, and Sieberling, and Wagner, and others as famil- 
iar; six months ago— a month ago — they would have 



I 



ANNE. 355 

laughed inexhaustibly at the idea of calling Tom Miller a 
hero, or elevating Fritz Wagner to any other x)edestal 
than the top of a beer barrel. But now, as they saw 
them, they gave a miglity cheer, which rangtlirough the 
air splendidly, and raised a hue of pride upon the faces 
of the artillerymen, and perhaps the first feeling in some 
of their hearts liigher than the determination not to 
"back out," which had been until then their actuating 
motive. The two shining little guns rattled down the 
iiill ; the infantry company marched down behind them. 
The line of cars, wdth locomotive attached, was in wait- 
ing, and, breaking ranks, helter-skelter, in any way and 
every way, hindered by hand-shaking, by all sorts of in- 
congruous parting gifts thrust upon them at the last mo- 
ment by people they never saw before, blessed by excited, 
tearful women, made heart-sick themselves by the sight 
of the grief of their mothers and waives, the soldiers took 
their places in the cars, and the train moved out from 
the station, followed by a long cheer, taken up and re- 
peated again and again, until nothing but a dark speck 
on the straight track remained for the shouters to look 
at, when they stopped suddenly, hoarse and tired, and 
went silently homeward, pondering upon this new thing 
which had come into their lives. The petty cares of the 
day were forgotten. ' ' War is hideous ; but it banishes 
littleness from daily life." 

Anne, brought up as she had been in a remote little 
conmiunity, isolated and half foreign, was in a measure 
ignorant of the causes and questions of the great strug- 
gle which began in America in April, 1861. Not hers the 
prayerful ardor of the New England girl w^ho that day 
willingly gave her lover, saw him brought home later 
dead, buried him, and lived on, because she believed that 
he had died to free his brother man, as Christ had died 
for her. Not hers the proud loyalty of the Southern girl 
to her blood and to her State, when that day she bade 
her lover go forth and sweep their fanatical assailants 
back, as the old Cavaliers, from whom they were descend- 
ed, swept back the crop-eared Puritans into the sea. 

Jeanne- Armande was not especially stirred ; save by 



356 ANNE. 

impatience — impatience over this interference with the 
prosperity of the country. It might injure property (the 
half-house), and break uj) music classes and schools! 
What sympathy she felt, too, was with the South ; but she 
was wise enough to conceal this from all save Anne, since 
the school was burning with zeal, and the principal al- 
ready engaged in teaching the pupils to make lint. But 
if Jeanne- Armande was lukewarm, Miss Lois was at fe- 
ver heat ; the old New England spirit rose within her like 
a giant when she read the tidings. Far away as she was 
from all the influences of the time, she yet wrote long 
letters to Anne which sounded like the clash of spears, 
the call of the trumpet, and the roll of drums, so fervid 
were the sentences which fell of themselves into the war- 
like phraseology of the Old Testament, learned by heart 
in her youth. But duty, as well as charity, begins at 
home, and even the most burning zeal must give way 
before the daily needs of children. Little Andre was not 
strong; his spine was becoming curved, they feared. In 
his languor he had fallen into the habit of asking Miss 
Lois to hold him in her arms, rock with him in the old 
rocking-chair, and sing. Miss Lois had not thought that 
she could ever love ' ' those children" ; but there was a soft 
spot in her heart now for little Andre. 

In June two unexpected changes came. Little Andre 
grew suddenly worse ; and Jeanne-Armande went to Eu- 
rope. A rich merchant of Weston, wishing to take his 
family abroad, engaged mademoiselle as governess for 
his two daughters, and French speaker for the party, at 
what she herself termed "the salary of a princess." The 
two announcements came on the same day. Jeanne-Ar- 
mande, excited and tremulous, covered a sheet of paper 
with figures to show to herself and Anne the amount of 
the expected gain. As she could not retain her place in 
the school without the magic power of being in two places 
at once, the next best course was to obtain it for Anne, 
with the understanding that the successor was to relin- 
quish it imraediately whenever called upon to do so. As 
they were in the middle of a term, the principal accepted 
Miss Douglas, who, although young, had proved herself 



AXXE. 857 

competent and faithful. And thus Anne found herself 
unexpectedly possessed of a higher salary, heavier duties, 
and alone. For Jeanne-Armande, in the helmet bonnet, 
sailed on the twentieth of the month for England, in com- 
pany with her charges, who, with all their beauty and 
bird-like activity, would find it impossible to elude made- 
moiselle, w^ho would guard them w^ith unflinching vigi- 
lance, and, it is but fair to add, would earn every cent of 
even that "salary of a princess" (whatever that may be) 
which had attracted her. 

Before mademoiselle departed it had been decided that 
in consequence of little Andre's illness Miss Lois should 
close the church-house, and take the child to the hot springs 
not far distant, in Michigan, and that Louis and Gabriel 
should come to their elder sister for a time. The boys 
were to travel to Weston alone, Pere Michaux putting 
them in charge of the captain of the steamer, w^hile Anne 
was to meet them upon their arrival. Miss Lois wrote 
that they were wild with excitement, and had begged all 
sorts of farewell presents from everybody, and packed 
them in the two chests which Pere Michaux had given 
them — knives, cord, hammers, nails, the last being "a 
box-stove, old and rusty, wliich they had actually tak- 
en to pieces and hidden among their clothes." Jeanne- 
Armande went away on Monday; the boys were to ar- 
rive on Saturday. Anne spent all her leisure time in 
preparing for them. Two of the little black- eyed fellows 
were coming at last, the children who had clung to her 
skirts, called her "Annet,"and now and then, when 
they felt like it, swarmed up all together to kiss her, like 
so many afiP ectionate young bears. They w^ere very dear 
to her — part of her childhood and of the island. The day 
arrived ; full of expectation, she w^ent down to meet the 
steamer. Slowly the long narrow craft threaded its way 
up the crooked river ; the great ropes were made fast, the 
plank laid in place; out poured the passengers, men, wo- 
men, and children, but no Louis, no Gabriel. Anne 
watched until the last man had passed, and the deck 
hands were beginning to roll out the freight ; then a voice 
spoke above. " Is that Miss Douglas?" 



358 ANNE. 

She looked up, and saw the captain, who asked her 
to come on board for a moment. ' ' I am very much 
troubled, Miss Douglas," he began, wiping his red but 
friendly face. "The two boys— your half-brothers, I be- 
lieve — placed in my care by Pere Michaux, have run 
away." 

Anne gazed at him in silence. 

"They must have slipped off the boat at Hennepin, 
which is the first point where we strike a railroad. It 
seems to have been a plan, too, for they managed to have 
their chests put off also." 

"You have no idea where they have gone ?" 

"No; I sent letters back to Hennepin and to Pere 
Michaux immediately, making inquiries. The only clew 
I have is that they asked a number of questions about the 
plains of one of our hands, who has been out that way." 

"The plains!" 

"Yes ; they said they had a sister living out there." 

A pain darted through Anne's heart. Could they have 
deserted her for Tita ? She went home desolate and dis- 
heartened ; the empty rooms, where all her loving pre- 
parations were useless now, seemed to watch her satiri- 
cally. Even the boys did not care enough for her to think 
of her pain and disappointment. 

Pere Michaux had had no suspicion of the plan : but 
he knew of one dark fact which might have, he wrote to 
Anne, a bearing upon it. Miss Lois had mysteriously 
lost, in spite of all her care, a sum of money, upon which 
she had depended for a part of the summer's expenses, 
and concerning which she had made great lamentation ; 
it had been made up by the renting of the church-house ; 
but the mystery remained. If the boys had taken it, bad 
as the action was, it insured for a time at least their safe- 
ty. The priest thought they had started Avestward to 
join East and Tita, having been fascinated by what they 
had overheard of East's letters. 

The surmise was correct. After what seemed to Anne 
very long delay, a letter came ; it was from East. The 
night before, two dirty little tramps, tired and hungry, 
with clothes soiled and torn, had opened the door and 



AXXE. 351) 

walked in, announcing- that they were Louis and Gabriel, 
and that they meant to stay. They had asked for food, 
but had fallen asleep almost before they could eat it. With 
their first breath that morning- they had again declared 
that nothing should induce them to return eastward, ei- 
ther to the island or to Anne. And Rast added that he 
thought they might as well remain; he and Tita would 
take charge of them. After a few days came a letter from 
the boys themselves, printed by Louis. In this document, 
brief but explicit, they sent their love, but declined to re- 
turn. If Pere Michaux came after them, they would run 
away again, and this time no one should ever know 
where they were, "exsep, purhaps, the Mormons.'' With 
this dark threat the letter ended. 

Pere Michaux, as in the case of Tita, took the matter 
into his own hands. He wrote to Rast to keep the boys, 
and find some regular occupation for them as soon as pos- 
sible. Anne's ideas about them had always been rather 
Quixotic ; he doubted whether they could ever have been 
induced to attend school regularly. But now they would 
grow to manhood in a region where such natural gifts as 
they possessed would be an advantage to them, and where, 
also, their deficiencies would not be especially apparent. 
The old priest rather enjoyed this escapade. He consider- 
ed that three of the Douglas children were now, on the 
whole, well placed, and that Anne was freed from the 
hampering responsibility which her father's ill-advised 
course had imposed upon her. He sailed round his wa- 
ter parish with brisker zeal than ever, although in truth 
he was very lonely. The little white fort was empty ; 
even Miss Lois was gone; but he kept himself busy, and 
read his old classics on stormy evenings when the rain 
poured down on his low roof. 

But Anne grieved. 

As several of her pupils wished to continue their music 
lessons during the vacation, it was decided by Miss Lois 
and herself that she should remain where she was toi' the 
present; the only cheer she had was in the liope that in 
autumn Miss Lois and the little boy Avould come to her. 
But in spite of all her efforts, the long weeks of summer 



360 ANNE. 

stretched before her like a desert; in her lonely rooms 
without the boys, without mademoiselle, she was pursued 
by a silent depression unlike anything she had felt before. 
She fell into the habit of allowing" herself to sit alone in 
the darkness through the evening brooding upon the past. 
The kind-hearted woman who kept the house, in whose 
charge she had been left by mademoiselle, said that she 
was "homesick." 

"How can one be homesick who has no home?" an- 
swered the girl, smiling sadly. 

One day the principal of the school asked her if she 
would go on Saturdays for a while, and assist those who 
were at work in the Aid Rooms for the soldiers' hospitals. 
Anne consented languidly; but once within the dingy 
walls, languor vanished. There personal sorrow seemed 
small in the presence of ghastly lists of articles required 
for the wounded and dying. At least those she loved 
were not confronting cannon. Those in charge of the 
rooms soon learned to expect her, this young teacher, a 
stranger in Weston, who with a settled look of sadness on 
her fair face had become the most diligent worker there. 
She came more regularly after a time, for the school had 
closed, the long vacation begun. 

On Sunday, the 21st of July, Anne Avas in church; it 
was a warm day ; fans waved, soft air came in and played 
around the heads of the people, who, indolent with sum- 
mer ease, leaned back comfortably, and listened with 
drowsy peacefulness to the peaceful sermon. At that 
very moment, on a little mill-stream near Washington, 
men were desperately fighting the first great battle of the 
war, the Sunday battle of Bull Eun. The remnant of 
the Northern army poured over Long Bridge into the cap- 
ital during all that night, a routed, panic-stricken mob. 

The North had suffered a great defeat ; the South had 
gained a great victory. And both sides paused. 

The news flashed over the wires and into Weston, and 
the town was appalled. Never in the f ou r long years that 
followed was tliere again a day so filled with stern aston- 
ishment to the entire North as that Monday after Bull 
Run. The Aid Rooms, where Anne worked during her 



ANNE. 361 

leisure hours, were filled with helpers now; all hearts 
were excited and in earnest. West Virginia was the field 
to which tlieir aid was sent, a mountain region whose 
streams were raised in an hour into torrents, and whose 
roads were often long* sloughs of despond, through which 
the soldiers of each side gloomily pursued each other hy 
turns, the slowness of the advancing force only equalled 
by that of the pursued, which was encountering in front 
the same disheartening difficulties. The men in hospi- 
tal on the edges of this region, worn out with wearying 
marches, wounded in skirmishes, stricken down by the 
insidious fever which haunts the river valleys, suffered 
as much as those who had the names of great battles 
wherewith to ideutify themselves; but they lacked the 
glory. 

One sultry evening, when the day's various labor was 
ended, Anne, having made a pretense of eating in her 
lonely room, went across to the bank of the lake to watch 
the sun set in the hazy blue water, and look northward 
toward the island. She was weary and sad : where were 
now the resolution and the patience with which she had 
meant to crown her life ? You did not know, poor Anne, 
when you framed those lofty purposes, that suffering is 
just as hard to bear whether one is noble or ignoble, good 
or bad. In the face of danger the heart is roused, and in 
the exaltation of determination forgets its pain ; it is the 
long monotony of dangerless days that tries the spirit 
hardest. 

A letter had come to her that morning, bearing a Bos- 
ton postmark; the address was in the neat, small hand- 
writing of Jeanne-Armande's friend. Anne, remember- 
ing that it was this Boston address which she had sent to 
her grandaunt, opened the envelope eagerly. But it was 
only the formal letter of a lawyer. Miss Vanhorn had 
died, on the nineteenth of June, in Switzerland, and the 
lawyer wrote to inform ''Miss Anne Douglas" that a cer- 
tain portrait, said in the will to be that of " Alida Clans- 
sen," had been bequeathed to her by his late client, and 
would be forwarded to her address whenever she request- 
ed it. Anne had expected nothing, not even this. But 



862 ANNE. 

an increased solitariness came upon her as she thought of 
that cold rig-id face lying under the turf far away in 
Switzerland — the face of the only relative left to her. 

The sun had disappeared; it was twilight. The few 
loiterers on the bank were departing. The sound of car- 
riage wheels roused her, and turning she saw that a car- 
riage had approached, and that three persons had alight- 
ed and were coming toward her. They proved to be the 
principal of the school and the president of the Aid Soci- 
ety, accompanied by one of her associates. They had 
been to Anne's home, and learning where she was, had 
followed her. It seemed that one of the city physicians 
had gone southward a few days before to assist in the reg- 
imental hospitals on the border; a telegraphic dispatch 
had just been received from him, urging the Aid Society 
to send without delay three or four nurses to that fever- 
cursed district, where men were dying in delirium for 
want of proper care. It w^as the first personal appeal 
which had come to Weston; the young Aid Society felt 
that it must be answered. But who could go ? Among 
the many workers at the Aid Rooms, few were free; 
wives, mothers, and daughters, they could give an hour 
or two daily to the work of love, but they could not leave 
their homes. One useful woman, a nurse by profession, 
was already engaged ; another, a lady educated and re- 
fined, whose hair had been silvered as much by affliction 
as by age, had offered to go. There were two, then ; but 
they ought to send four. Many had been asked during 
that afternoon, but without success. The society was at 
its wits' end. Then some one thought of Miss Douglas, 

She was young, but she was also self -controlled and 
physically strong. Her inexperience would not be awk- 
wardness; she would obey with intelligence and firmness 
the directions given her. Under the charge of the twc 
older women, she could go — if she would ! 

It would be but for a short time — two weeks only ; at 
the end of that period the society expected to relieve these 
first volunteers with regularly engaged and paid nurses. 
The long vacation had begun ; as teacher, she would lose 
nothing ; her expenses would be paid by the society. She 



ANNE. 363 

liad seemed so interested; it would not be much more to 
go for a few days in person ; perhaps she would even be 
glad to go. All this they told her eagerly, Avhile she stood 
before them in silence. Then, when at last their voices 
ceased, and they waited for answer, she said, slowly, look- 
ing from one to the other: " I could go, if it were not for 
one obstacle. I have music scholars, and I can not af- 
ford to lose them. I am very poor." 

"They will gladly wait until you return, Miss Doug- 
las," said the principal. "When it is known where you 
have gone, you will not only retain all your old scholars, 
but gain many new ones. They will be proud of their 
teacher." 

"Yes, proud !" echoed the associate. Again Anne re- 
mained silent; she was thinking. In her loneliness she 
was almost glad to go. Perhaps, by the side of the suf- 
fering and the dying, she could learn to be ashamed of be- 
ing so down-hearted and miserable. It was but a short ab- 
sence. "Yes, I will go," she said, quietly. And then 
the three ladies kissed her, and the associate, who was of 
a tearful habit, took out her handkerchief. "It is so 
sweet, and so— so martial!" she sobbed. 

The next morning they started. Early as it was, a lit- 
tle company had gathered to see them off. The school- 
girls were there, half in grief, half in pride, over what 
they were pleased to call the "heroism" of their dear 
Miss Douglas. Mrs. Green, Anne's landlady, was there 
in her Sunday bonnet, which was, however, but a poor 
one. These, with the pi-int ipal of the school and the oth- 
er teachers, and the ladies belonging to the Aid Society, 
made quite a snowy shower of white handkerchiefs as 
the train moved out from the station, Anne's young face 
contrasting with the strong features and coarse complex- 
ion of Mary Crane, the professional nurse, on one side, 
and with the thin cheeks and silver hair of Mrs. Barstow 
on the other, as they stood together at the rear door of the 
last car. ' ' Good-by ! good-by !" called the school-girls in 
tears, and the ladies of the Aid Society gave a shrill lit- 
tie feminine cheer. They were away. 



364 ANNE. 



Chapter XXIV. 

" When we remember how they died — 
In dark ravine and on the mountain-side, .000 

How their dear hves were spent 
By lone lagoons and streams, 
In the weary hospital tent, .... 

... .it seems 
Ignoble to be alive !" 

— Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 

The three nurses travelled southward by railway, 
steamboat, and wag-on. On the evening- of the third day 
they came to the first hospital, having been met at the 
river by an escort, and safely guided across a country fair 
with summer and peaceful to the eye, but harassed by 
constant skirmishing- — the guerrilla warfare that deso- 
lated that border during the entire war. The houses they 
passed looked home-like and quiet ; if the horses had been 
stolen and the barns pillaged, at least nothing of it ap- 
peared in the warm sunshine of the still August day. 
At the door of the hospital they were welcomed cordial- 
ly, and within the hoiir they were at work, Anne timid- 
ly, the others energetically. Mary Crane had the worst 
cases; then followed Mrs. Barstow. To Anne was given 
what was called the light work; none of her patients 
were in danger. The men here had all been stricken 
down by fever ; there were no wounded. During the 
next day and evening, however, stories began to come to 
the little post, brought by the country people, that a battle 
had been fought farther up the valley toward the mount- 
ains, and that Hospital Number Two was filled with 
wounded men, many of them lying on the hard floor 
because there were not beds enough, unattended and suf- 
fering because there were no nurses. Anne, who had 



ANNE. 365 

worked ardently all day, chafing- and rebelling* in spirit at 
the sight of suffering" which could have been soothed by 
a few of the common luxuries abundant in almost every 
house in Weston, felt herself first awed, tben chilled, by 
this picture of far worse agony beyond, whose details 
were pitilessly painted in the plain rough w^ords of the 
country people. She went to the door and looked up the 
valley. The river w^ound slowly along, broad, yellow, 
and shining ; it came from the mountains, but from where 
she stood she could see only round-topx^ed hills. While 
she was still wistfully gazing, a soldier on horseback rode 
up to the door and dismounted ; it was a messenger from 
Number Two, urgently asking for help. 

"Under the circumstances, I do not see how I can re- 
fuse," said the surgeon of Number One, with some annoy- 
ance in his tone, "because none of my men are wound- 
ed. People never stop to think that fever is equally 
dangerous. I was just congratulating myself upon a lit- 
tle satisfactory work. However, I shall have to yield, I 
suppose. I can not send you all ; but I ought to spare 
two, at least for some days. Mary Crane of course can do 
the most good ; and as Miss Douglas can not be left here 
alone, perhaps it would be best that she should go wdth 
Mary." 

"You retain Mrs. Barstow here ?" asked Anne. 

"Yes; I have, indeed, no choice. You are too young 
to be retained alone. I suppose you are willing ? (Wo- 
men always are wild for a change !) Make ready, then ; 
I shall send you forward to-night. " The surgeon of Num- 
ber One w^as a cynic. 

At nine o'clock they started. The crescent of a young 
moon showed itself through the light clouds, which, low 
as mist, hung over the valley. Nothing stirred; each 
leaf hung motionless from its branchlet as they passed. 
Even the penetrating sing-song chant of the summer in- 
sects w^as hushed, and the smooth river as they followed 
its windings made no murmur. They were in a light 
wagon, with an escort of two mounted men. 

"If you go beyond Number Two, you'll have to take to 
horseback, I reckon," said their driver, a countryman, 



360 ANNE. 

who, without partisan feeling as to the two sides of the 
contest, held on with a tight gi'ip to his horses, and im- 
partially "did teaming" for both. 

"Is there still another hospital beyond?" inquired 
Anne. 

' ' Yes, there's Peterson's, a sorter hospital ; it's up in the 
mountains. And heaps of sick fellers there too, the last 
time I w^as up." 

"It does not belong to this department," said Mary 
Crane. 

"I reckon they suflPer pooty much the same, no mat- 
ter where they belong," replied the driver, flicking the 
wheel reflectively with his whip-lash. "There was a 
feller up at Number Two the other day as hadn't any 
face left to speak of; yet he was alive, and quite peart." 

Anne shuddered. 

"There now, hold up, won't you?" said Mary Crane. 
"This young lady ain't a real nurse, as I am, and such 
stories make her feel faint." 

"If she ain't a real nurse, what made her come ?" said 
the man, glancing at Anne with dull curiosity. 

" 'Twas just goodness, and the real downright article 
of patriotism, I guess," said the hearty nurse, smiling. 

"Oh no," said Anne ; " I was lonely and sad, and glad 
to come." 

"It doos kinder rouse one up to see a lot of men hit in 
all sorts of ways, legs and arms and everything flying 
round," remarked the driver, as if approving Anne's se- 
lection of remedies for loneliness. 

They reached Number Two at dawn, and found the 
wounded in rows upon the floor of the barn dignified by 
the name of hospital. There had been no attempt to 
classify them after the few beds were filled. One poor 
torn fragment of humanity breathed his last as the nurses 
entered, another an hour later. Mary Crane set herself 
to work Avitli ready skill ; Anne, after going outside two 
or three times to let her tears flow unseen over the sor- 
rowful sights, was able to assist in taking care of two 
kinds of cases — those who were the least hurt and those 
who were beyond hope, the slightly wounded and the 



ANNE. 867 

dying. One man, upon whose face was the gray shadow 
of death, asked her in a whisper to write a letter for liim. 
She found jjaper and pen, and sat down beside the bed 
to receive liis farewell message to his wife and children, 
"And tell little Jim he must grow up and be a comfort 
to his mother," he murmured ; and then turning his quiet 
gaze slowly upon the nurse : ' ' His mother is only t wentj^- 
two years old now, miss. I expect shell feel bad, Mary 
will, when she hears." Poor young wife ! The simple 
country phraseology covered as much sorrow as the finest 
language of the schools. During the night the man died. 

The new nurses remained at Number Two six days. 
Anne's work consisted principally in relieving Mary 
Crane at dawn, and keeping the watch through the early 
morning hours while she slept ; for the head surgeon and 
Mary would not allow her to watch at night. The sur- 
geon had two assistants ; with one of these silent old men 
(they were both gray-haired) she kept watch while the sun 
rose slowly over the hill-tops, while the birds twittered, 
and the yellow^ butterflies came dancing through the open 
doors and windows, over the heads of the poor human 
sleepers. But Number Two had greater ease now. The 
hopelessly wounded were all at rest, their sufferings in 
this life over. Those who were left in time would see 
health again. 

On the seventh day a note came to the surgeon in 
charge from the temporary hospital at Peterson's Mill, 
asking for medicines. " If you can possibly spare us one 
or two nurses for a few daj's, pray do so. In all my ex- 
perience I have never been so hard pushed as now," 
wrote the other surgeon, "The men here are all down 
with the fever, and I and my assistant are almost crazed 
with incessant night-work. If we could be relieved for 
one night even, it would be God's charity." 

The surgeon of Number Two read this note aloud to 
Anne as they stood by a table eating their hasty break- 
fast, " It is like the note you sent to us at Number One," 
she said. 

"Oh no; that was different, J never send and take 
away other people's nurses," said Dr. Janes, laughingly. 



368 ANNE. 

"I should like to go," she said, after a moment. 

' ' You should like to go ? I thought you were so 
much interested here." 

"So I am; but after what I have seen, I am haunted 
by the thought that there may be worse suffering beyond. 
That is the reason I came here. But the men here are 
more comfortable now% and those who were sufPering 
hopelessly have been relieved forever from earthly pain. 
If we are not needed, some of us ought to go." 

' ' But if w^e pass you on in this way from post to post, 
we shall get you entirely over the mountains, and into 
the Department of the Potomac, Miss Douglas. What 
you say is true enough, but at present I refuse. I simply 
can not spare you tw^o. If they should send us a nurse 
from Eivertown as they promised, we might get along 
without you for a while; but not now. Charity, you 
know, begins at home." 

Anne sighed, but acquiesced. The surgeon knew best. 
But during that day, not only did the promised nurse from 
the Eivertown Aid Society arrive, but with her a volun- 
teer assistant, a young girl, her face flushed w4th exalta- 
tion and excitement over the opportunity afforded her to 
help and comfort "our poor dear wounded heroes." The 
w^ounded heroes were not poetical in appearance; they 
were simply a row of ordinary sick men, bandaged in va- 
rious ways, often irritable, sometimes profane ; their 
grammar was defective, and they cai'ed more for tobacco 
than for texts, or even poetical quotations. The young 
nurse would soon have her romance rudely dispelled. 
But as there was good stuff in her, she would do useful 
work yet, although shorn of many illusions. The other 
woman was a professional nurse, whose services w^ere 
paid for like those of Mary Crane. 

" Now may we go ?" said Anne, when the new nurse 
had been installed. 

Dr. Janes, loath to consent, yet ashamed, as he said 
himself, of his own greediness, made no long opposition, 
and the countryman with the non-partisan horses was 
engaged to take them to Peterson's Mill. For this part 
of the road no escort was required. They travelled in 



Ax\XE. 369 

the wagon for ten miles. Here the man stopped, took the 
harness from the horses, replaced it VvHth two side-saddles 
which he had brought with him, drew the wagon into a 
ravine safely out of sight, effaced the trace of the wheels, 
and then wiping his forehead after his exertions, an- 
nounced that he was ready. Anne had never been on 
horseback in her life. Mary Crane, wiio would have 
mounted a camel imperturbably if it came into the line of 
her business, climbed up sturdily by the aid of a stump, 
and announced that she felt herself "quite solid." The 
horse seemed to agree wdth her. Anne follo\ved her ex- 
ample, and being without physical nervousness, she soon 
became accustomed to the motion, and even began to im- 
agine how exhilarating it would be to ride rapidly over a 
broad plain, feeling the wind on her face as she flew along. 
But the two old brown horses had no idea of flying. 
They toiled patiently every day, and sometimes at night 
as w^ell, now for one army, now for the other ; but no- 
thing could make them quicken their pace. In the 
present case they were not asked to do it, since the road 
was but a bridle-path through the ravines and over the 
hills which formed the flank of the mountains they were 
approaching, and the driver was following them on foot. 
The ascents grew steeper, the ravines deeper and wilder. 

" I no longer see the mountains," said Anne. 

" That's because you're in 'em," answ^ered the driver. 

At night-fall they reached their destination. It was 
a small mountain mill, in a little green valley which 
nestled confidingly among the wild peaks as though it 
was not afraid of their roughness. Within were the fe- 
ver patients, and the tired surgeon and his still more tired 
assistant could hardly believe their good fortune when the 
two nurses appeared. The assistant, a tall young medi- 
cal student who had not yet finished growing, made his 
own bed of hay and a coverlet so hungrily in a dusky 
corner that Anne could not help smiling ; the poor fel- 
low was fairly gaunt from loss of sleep, and had been 
obliged to walk up and down during the whole of the 
previous night to keep himself awake. The surgeon, 
who was older and more hardened, explained to Mary 
24 



370 ANNE. 

Crane the condition of the men, and gave her careful di- 
rections for the night; then he too disappeared. Anne 
and Mary moved about softly, and when everything was 
ready, sat down on opposite sides of the room to keep 
the vigil. If the men were restless, Mary was to attend 
to them ; Anne was the subordinate, merely obeying 
Mary's orders. The place was dimly lighted by two can- 
dles set in bottles ; the timbers above were festooned with 
cobwebs whitened with meal, and the floor was covered 
with its fine yellow dust. A large spider came slowly 
out from behind a beam near by, and looked at Anne ; at 
least she thought he did. He was mealy too, and slie fell 
to wondering whether he missed the noise of the wheel, 
and whether he asked himself w^iat all these men meant 
by coming in and lying down in rows upon his floor to 
disturb his peacefulness. At sunrise the surgeon came 
in, but he was obliged to shake the student roughly be- 
fore he could awaken him from his heavy slumber. It 
was not until the third day that the poor youth lost the 
half-mad expression w^hich had shone in his haggard face 
when they arrived, and began to look as though he was 
composed of something besides big jaws, gaunt cheeks, 
and sunken eyes, which had seemed to be all there was 
of him besides bones when they first came. 

The fever patients at Peterson's Mill were not Western 
men, like the inmates of Number One and Number Two; 
they belonged to two New York regiments. Mary Crane 
did excellent work among them, her best; her systematic 
watchfulness, untiring vigilance, and strict rules shook 
the hold of the fever, and in many cases routed the dismal 
spectre, and brought the victims triumphantly back to 
hope of health again. 

One morning Anne, having written a letter for one of 
the men, w^as fanning him as he lay in his corner; the 
doors wxre open, but the air was sultry. The man w^as 
middle-aged and gaunt, his skin was yellow and lifeless, 
his eyes sunken. Yet the surgeon pronounced him out 
of danger ; it w^as now merely a question of care, patience, 
and nourishment. The poor mill-hospital had so little for 
its sick ! But boxes from the North were at last beginning 



ANNE. 371 

to penetrate even these defiles ; one had arrived during 
the previous nig-ht, having been dragged on a rude sledge 
over places where wheels could not go, by the non-parti- 
san liorses, whicii were now on their patient way with a 
load of provisions to a detachment of Confederates camp- 
ed, or rather mired, in the southern part of the county. 
The contents of that box had made the mill-hospital 
glad; the yellow -faced skeleton whom Anne was fan- 
ning had tasted lemons at last, and almost tliought he was 
in heaven. Revived and more hopeful, he had been talk- 
ing to his nurse. "I should feel easier, miss, if I knew 
just where our captain was. You see, there was a sort of 
a scrimmage, and some of us got hurt. He wasn't hurt, 
but he was took down w^th the fever, and so bad that we 
had to leave him behind at a farm-house. And I've 
heard nothing since." 

" Where was he left — far from here ?" 

" No; sing'lerly enough, 'twas the very next valley to 
this one. We went in half a dozen directions after that, 
and tramped miles in the mud, but he was left there. 
We put him in charge of a woman, who said she'd take 
care of him, but I misdoubt her. She was a meaching- 
looking creature." 

' ' Probably, then, as you have heard nothing, he has re- 
covered, and is with his regiment again," said Anne, with 
the cheerful optimism which is part of a nurse's duty. 

" Yes, miss. And yet perhaps he ain't, you know. I 
thought mebbe you'd ask the surgeon for me. I'm only 
a straggler here, anyway ; the others don't belong to my 
regiment. Heathcote was the name ; Captain Ward 
Heathcote. A city feller he was, but wuth a heap, for all 
that." 

What was the matter with the nurse that she turned so 
pale ? And now she was gone ! And without leaving the 
fan too. However, he could hardly have held it. He 
found his little shred of lemon, lifted it to his dry lips, 
and closed his eyes patiently, hardly remembering even 
what he had said. 

Meanwhile Anne, still very pale, had drawn the sur- 
geon outside the door, and was questioning him. Yes, 



372 ANNK 

he knew that an officer had been left at a farm-house 
over in the next valley ; he had been asked to ride over 
and see him. But how could he ! As nothing had been 
heard from him since, however, he was probably well by 
this time, and back with his regiment again. 

"Probably" — the very word she had herself used when 
answering the soldier. How inactive and cowardly it 
seemed now ! "I must go across to this next valley, " she 
said. 

"My dear Miss Douglas!" said Dr. Flower, a grave, 
portly man, whose ideas moved as slowly as his small fat- 
encircled eyes. 

' ' I know a Mr. Heathcote ; this may be the same per- 
son. The Mr. Heathcote I know is engaged to a friend 
of mine, a lady to whom I am much indebted. I must 
learn whether this officer in the next valley is he." 

"But even if it is the same man, no doubt he is doing 
well over there. Otherwise we should have heard from 
them before this time," said the surgeon, sensibly. 

But Anne did not stop at sense. "It is probable, but 
not certain. There must be no room for doubt. If you 
will ride over, I will stay. Otherwise I must go." 

"I can not leave; it is impossible." 

" Where can I procure a horse, then ?" 

"I do not think I ought to allow it. Miss Douglas. 
It is nearly fifteen miles to the next valley; of course 
you can not go alone, and I can not spare Mary Crane to 
go with you." The surgeon spoke decidedly; he had 
daughters of his own at home, and felt himself responsi- 
ble for this young nurse. 

Anne looked at him. "Oh, do help me!" she cried, 
with an outburst of sudden emotion. "I must go ; even 
if I go alone, and walk every step of the way, I must, 
must go !" 

Dr. Caleb Flower w^as a slow man ; but anything he 

had once learned he remembered. He now recognized 

the presence of what he called "one of those intense im- 

* pulses which make even timid women for the time being 

inflexible as adamant." 

"You will have to pay largely for horses and a guide," 



AXNE. 373 

he said, in order to gain time, inwardly regretting mean- 
wliile that he had not the power to tie this nurse to her 
chair. 

"I have a little money with me." 

"But even if horses are found, you can not go alone; 
and, as I said before, I can not spare Mary.-' 

"Why would not Diana do ?" said Anne. 

"Diana!" exclaimed Dr. Flower, his lips puckering as 
if to form a long whistle. 

Diana was a middle-aged negro woman, who, with her 
husband, July, lived in a cabin near the mill, acting as 
laundress for the hospital. She was a silent, austere wo- 
man ; in her there was little of the light-heartedness and 
plenitude of person which generally belong to her race. 
A devout Baptist, quoting more texts to the sick soldiers 
than they liked when she was emploj^ed in the hospital, 
chanting hymns in a low voice while hanging out the 
clothes, Diana had need of her austerity, industry, and 
leanness to balance July, who was the most light-hearted, 
lazy, and rotund negro in the mountains. 

' ' But you know that Mary Crane has orders not to 
leave you ?" said Dr. Flower. 

"I did not know it." 

' ' Yes ; so she tells me. The ladies of the Aid Society 
who sent her arranged it. And I wish with all my heart 
that our other young nurses were as well taken care of!" 
added the surgeon, a comical expression coming into his 
small eyes. 

"On ordinary occasions I would not, of course, in- 
terfere with these orders, " said Anne, ' ' but on this I must. 
You must trust me with Diana, doctor — Diana and July. 
They will take good care of me." 

"I sux^pose I shall have to yield. Miss Douglas. But 
I regret, regret exceedingly, that I have not full authori- 
ty over you. I feel it necessary to say formally that 
your going is against my wishes and my advice. And 
now, since you ii'ill have your own way in any case, I 
must do what I can for you." 

An hour later, two mules were ascending the mount- 
ain-side, following an old trail; Anne was on one, the 



374 ANNE. 

tall grave Diana on the other. July walked in front, 
with his gun over his shoulder. 

*'No danjah hyah," he assured them volubly; "sol- 
diers doan' come up dis yer way at all. Dey go draggin' 
'long in de mud below always; seem to like 'em." 

But Anne was not thinking of danger. "Could we 
not go faster by the road?" she asked. 

' ' 'Spec's we could, miss. But wudn't darst to, ef I 
was you." 

' ' No, no, miss, " said Diana. ' ' Best keep along in dese 
yere woods; dey's safe." 

The hours were endless. At last it seemed to Anne as 
if they were not moving at all, but merely sitting still in 
their saddles, while a continuous procession of low trees 
and high bushes filed slowly past them, now j^ointing up- 
ward, now slanting downward, according to the nature 
of the ground. In reality they were moving forward, 
crossing a spur of the mountain, but so dense was the fo- 
liage of the thicket, and so winding the path, that they 
could not see three feet in any direction, and all sense of 
advance was therefore lost, Anne fell into a mental 
lethargy, which was troubled every now and then by that 
strange sense of having seen particular objects before 
which occasionally haunts the brain. Now it was a tree, 
now a bird; or was it that she had known July in some 
far-off anterior existence, and that he had kicked a stone 
from his path in precisely that same way ? 

It was late twilight when, after a long descent still 
shrouded in the interminable thicket, the path came out 
suddenly upon a road, and Anne's eyes seemed to herself 
to expand as the view expanded. She saw a valley, the 
gray smoothness of water, and here and there roofs. 
July had stopped the mules in the shadow. 

"Can you tell me which house it mought be, miss?" 
he asked, in a low, cautious tone. 

" No," replied Anne. " But the person I am trying to 
find is named Heathcote^Captain Heathcote. We must 
make inquiries." 

"Now do be keerful, miss," urged July, keeping Anne's 




"JULY WALKED IN FRONT, WITH HIS GUN OVER HIS SHOULDER," 



ANNE. 375 

mule back, "I'll jes' go and peer roun' a bit. But you 
stay hyar with Di." 

' ' Yes, miss, " said Diana. ' ' We'll go back in de woods 
a piece, and wait. July '11 fin' out all about "em." 

Whether willingly or unwillingly, Anne was obliged 
to yield; the two women rode back into the woods, and 
July stole away cautiously upon his errand. 

It was ten o'clock before he returned ; Anne had dis- 
mounted, and was walking impatiently to and fro in the 
warm darkness. 

"Found 'em, miss," said July. "But it's cl'ar 'cross 
de valley. Howsomever, valley's safe, dey say, and you 
can ride right along ober." 

" Was it Mr. Heathcote ?" said Anne, as the mules trot- 
ted down a cross-road and over a bridge, July keeping up 
with a long loping run. 

"Yes, miss ; Heathcote's de name. I saw him, and 
moughty sick he looked." 

" What did he say ?" 

' ' Fever's in him head, miss, and didn't say nothing. 
Senses clean done gone. " 

Anne had not thought of this ; it changed her task at 
once. He would not know her ; she could do all that was 
necessary in safety, and then go unrecognized away. 
"What will he say ?" she had asked herself a thousand 
times. Now, he would say nothing, and all would be 
simple and easy. 

"Dis yere's de place," said July, pausing. 

It was a low farm-house with a slanting roof; there 
was a light in the window, and the door stood open. 
Anne, springing from her saddle, and followed by Diana, 
hastened up the little garden path. At first there seemed 
to be no one in the room into which the house door open- 
ed ; then a slight sound behind a curtain in one corner 
attracted her attention, and going across, she drew aside 
the drapery. The head moving restlessly to and fro on 
the pillow, with closed eyes and drawn mouth, was that 
of Ward Heathcote. 

She spoke his name ; the eyes opened and rested upon 
her, but there was no recognition in the glance. 



376 ANNE. 

"Bless you! his senses has been gone for days," said 
the farmer's wife, coming up behind her and looking at 
her patient impartially. "He don't know nobody no 
more'n a day-old baby !" 



Chapter XXV. 



" Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or tends with the remover to remove: 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come : 
Love alters not with his l)rief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom." 

— Shakspeare,- 

"Why did you not send across to the hospital at the 
mill?" said Anne. "Dr. Flower, receiving no second 
message, supxDOsed that Captain Heathcote had recovered." 

"Well, you see, I reckon I know as much about this 
yer fever as the doctors do as never had it," replied Mrs, 
Redd. "The captain couldn't be moved ; that was plain 
as day. And we hadn't a horse, nuther. Our horse and 
mules have all been run off and stole." 

Mrs. Redd was a clay-colored woman, with a figure 
Avhich, cavernous in front, was yet so rounded out behind 
that if she could have turned her head round she would 
have been very well shaped. Her knowledge of the fe- 
ver was plainly derived from personal experience ; she ex- 
plained that she had it "by spells," and that "Redd he 
has it too, '' and their daughter Nancy as well. ' ' Redd he 
isn't to home now, nor Nancy nuther. But Redd he'll 
be back by to-morrow night, I reckon. If you want to 
stay, I can accommodate you. You can have the loft, 
and the niggers can sleep in the barn. But they'll have 
to cook for tliemselves. I shall be mighty glad to have 
some help in tending on the captain ; I'm about wore out." 

Mrs. Redd did not mention that she had confiscated the 
sick man's money, and hidden it safely away in an old 
tea-pot, and that all her knowledge of arithmetic was at 



AXNE. 377 

"vvork keeping a daily account of expenses which should 
in the end exactly balance the sum. She had no inten- 
tion of stealing the money — certainly not. But of course 
her "just account'' must be paid. She could still work at 
this problem, she thought, and earn something as well 
from the new-comers, who would also relieve her from 
all care of the sick man : it was clearly a providence. In 
the glow of this expected gain she even prepared supper. 
Fortunately in summer her kitchen was in the open air, 
and the room where Heathcote lay was left undisturbed. 

Anne had brought the hospital medicines with her, 
and careful instructions from Mary Crane. If she had 
come upon Heathcote before her late experiences, she 
would have felt little hope, but men whose strength had 
been far more reduced than his had I'ecovered under her 
eyes. Diana was a careful nurse ; July tilled the place of 
valet, sleeping on straw on the floor. She ordered down 
the bed-curtains and* opened all the Vv^indows ; martial law 
regarding air, quiet, and medicines was proclaimed. The 
sick man lay quietly, save for the continued restless mo- 
tion of his head. 

"If we could only stop his slipping his head across and 
back in that everlasting way, I believe he'd be better 
right off," said Mrs. Redd. 

"It done him good, 'pears to me," said July, who al- 
ready felt a strong affection in his capacious vagabond- 
izing heart for the stranger committed to his cai^. " Yo' 
see, it kinder rests his mind like." 

"Much mind he's got to rest with!" said Mrs. Redd, 
contemptuously. 

With her two assistants, it was not necessary that Anne 
should remain in the room at night, and she did not, at 
least in personal presence; but every half -hour she was 
at the top of the stairway, silently watching to see if 
Diana fulfilled her duties. On the ihird day the new- 
medicines and the vigilance conquered. On the fifth day 
the sick man fell into his first natural slumber. The 
house was very still. Bees droned serenely. There was 
no breeze. Anne was sitting on the door-steps. ' ' Ought 
I to go now before he wakens ?" she was thinking. ' ' But 



378 ANNE. 

I can not until the dang-er is surely over. He may not 
recognize me even now." She said to herself that she 
would stay a short time longer, but without entering the 
room, where he was ; Diana could come to her for orders, 
and the others must not allude to her presence. Then, 
as soon as she was satisfied that his recovery was certain, 
she could slip away unseen. She went round to the 
back of the house to warn the others ; it was all to go 
on as though she was not there. 

Heathcote wakened at last, weak but conscious. He 
had accepted without speech the presence of Diana and 
July, and had soon fallen asleep again, "like a chile." 
He ate some breakfast the next morning, and the day pass- 
ed without fever. Mrs. Redd pronounced him convales- 
cent, and declared decisively that all he needed was to 
* ' eat hearty. " The best medicine now would be " a plen- 
ty of vittals." In accordance with this opinion she pre- 
pared a meal of might, carried it in with her own hands, 
and in two minutes, forgetting all about the instructions 
she had received, betrayed Anne's secret. Diana, who 
was present, looked at her reproachfully : the black skin 
covered more faithfulness than the white. 

"Well, I do declare to Jerusalem I forgot!" said the 
hostess, laughing. "However, now you know it. Miss 
Douglas might as well come in, and make you eat if she 
can. For eat you must, captain. Why, man alive, if you 
could see yourself ! You're just skin and rattling bones." 

And thus it all happened. Anne, afraid to lay so much 
as a finger's weight of excitement of any kind upon him 
in his weak state, hearing his voice faintly calling her 
name, and understanding at once that her presence had 
been disclosed, came quietly in with a calm face, as though 
her beiug there was quite commonplace and natural, and 
taking the plate from Diana, sat down by the bedside 
and began to feed him with the bits of chicken, which 
was all of the meal of might that he would touch. She 
paid no attention to the expression which grew gradually 
in his feeble eyes as tbey rested upon her and followed 
her motions, at first vaguely, then with more and more 
of insistence and recollection. 



ANNE. 379 

"Anne V he murmured, after a while, as if question- 
ing with himself. " It is Anne ?" 

She lifted her hand authoritatively. "Yes,'' she said ; 
" but YOU must not talk. Eat." 

He obeyed ; but he still gazed at her, and then slowly he 
sm.iled. ' ' You will not run away again ?'' he whispered. 

" Not immediately.""' 

" Promise that you will not go to-night or to-morrow." 

"I promise." 

And then, as if satisfied, he fell asleep. 

He slept all night peacefully. But Anne did not once 
lose consciousness. At dawn she left her sleepless couch, 
and dressed herself, moving about the room cautiously, so 
as not to awaken the sleeper below. When she was ready 
to go down, she loaused a moment, thinking. Raising 
her eyes, she found herself standing b}^ chance opposite 
the small mirror, and her gaze rested half unconsciously 
vipon her own reflected image. She drew nearer, and 
leaning with folded arms upon the chest of drawers, look- 
ed at herself, as if striving to see something hitherto 
hidden. 

We think we know our own faces, yet they are in real- 
ity less known to us than the countenances of our ac- 
quaintances, of our servants, even of our dogs. If any 
one will stand alone close to a mirror, and look intently 
at his own reflection for several minutes or longer, the 
impression produced on his mind will be extraordinary. 
At first it is nothing but his own well-known, perhaps 
well-worn, face that confronts him. Whatever there 
may be of novelty in the faces of others, there is certain- 
ly nothing of it here. So at least he believes. But after 
a while it grows strange. What do those eyes mean, 
meeting his so mysteriously and silently ? Whose mouth 
is that ? Whose brow ? What vague suggestions of 
something stronger than he is, some dormant force which 
laughs him to scorn, are lurking behind that mask ? In 
the outline of the features, the curve of the jaw and chin, 
perhaps he notes a suggested likeness to this or that ani- 
mal of the lower class — a sign of some trait which he was 
not conscious he possessed. And then — those strange 



380 ANNE. 

eyes ! They are his own ; nothing new ; yet in their 
depths all sorts of mocking meanings seem to rise. The 
world, with all its associations, even his own history also, 
drops from him like a garment, and he is left alone, 
facing the problem of his own existence. It is the old 
riddle of the Sphinx. 

Something of this passed through Anne's mind at that 
moment. She was too young to accept misery, to gener- 
alize on sorrow, to place herself among the large percent- 
age of women to whom, in the great balance of popula^ 
tion, a happy love is denied. She felt her own wretch- 
edness acutely, unceasingly, while the man she loved was 
so near. She knew that she would leave him, that he 
would go back to Helen ; that she would return to her 
hospital work and to Weston, and that that would be the 
end. There was not in her mind a thought of anything 
else. Yet this certainty did not prevent the two large 
slow tears that rose and. welled over as she watched the 
eyes in the glass, watched them as though they were the 
eyes of some one else. 

Diana's head now appeared, giving the morning bul- 
letin: the captain had slept "like a clierrb," and was al- 
ready "'mos' well." Anne went down by the outside 
stairway, and ate her breakfast under the trees not far 
from Mrs. Redd's out-door hearth. She told July that she 
should return to the hospital during the coming night, 
or, if the mountain path could not be traversed in the 
darkness, they must start at dawn. 

"I don't think it's quite fair of you to quit so soon," 
objected Mrs. Redd, loath to lose her profit. 

"If you can find anyone to escort me, I will leave you 
Diana and July," answered Anne. "For myself, I can 
not stay longer." 

July went in with the sick man's breakfast, but came 
forth again immediately. ' ' He wants yo' to come, miss. " 

" I can not come now. If he eats his breakfast obedi- 
ently, I will come in and see him later," said the nurse. 

"Isn't much trouble 'bout eating,^' said July, grinning. 
" Cap'n he eats like he 'mos' staiwved." 

Anne remained sitting under the trees, while the two 



ANNE. 381 

black servants attended to her patient. iVt ten o'clock he 
was reported as "sittin' up in bed, and powerful smart." 
This bulletin was soon followed by another, "Him all 
tired out now, and gone to sleep.'' 

Leaving directions for the next hour, she strolled into 
the woods behind the house. She had intended to go but 
a short distance, but, led on by her own restlessness and 
the dull pain in her heart, she wandered farther than 
she knew. 

Jacob Redd's little farm Avas on the northern edge of the 
valley; its fields and wood-lot ascended the side of the 
mountain. Anne, reaching the end of the wood-lot, open- 
ed the gate, and went on up the hill. She followed a lit- 
tle trail. The trees were larger than those through which 
she had travelled on the opposite side of the valley; it 
was a wood, not a thicket; the sunshine was hot, the 
green silent shade pleasant. She went on, although novv 
the trail was climbing upward steeply, and rocks appear- 
ed. She had been ascending for half an hour, when she 
came suddenly upon a narrow, deep ravine, crossing from 
left to right; the trail turned and followed its edge; but 
as its depths looked cool and inviting, and as she thought 
she heard the sound of a brook below, she left the little 
path, and went downward into the glen. When she 
reached the bottom she found herself beside a brook, 
flowing along over white pebbles ; it was not more than a 
foot wide, but full of life and merriment, going no one 
knew whither, and in a great hurry about it. A little 
brook is a fascinating object to persons unaccustomed to 
its coaxing, vagrant witcheries. There were no brooks 
on the island, only springs that trickled down from the 
clifiPs into the lake in tiny silver water-falls. Anne fol- 
lowed the brook. Absorbed in her own thoughts, and 
naturally fearless, it did not occur to her that there might 
be danger even in this quiet forest. She went round a 
curve, then round another, when — what was that ? She 
paused. Could he have seen her ? Was he asleep ? Or 
— dead ? 

It was a common sight enough, a dead soldier in the 
uniform of the United States infantry. He was young, 



382 ANNE. 

and his face, turned toward her, was as peaceful as if he 
was sleeping- ; there was almost a smile on his cold lips. 
With beating heart she looked around. There were 
twisted broken branches above on the steep side of the ra- 
vine; he had either fallen over, or else had dragged him- 
self down to be out of danger, or perhaps to get water 
from the brook. The death-wound was in his breast ; she 
could see traces of blood. But he could not have been 
long dead. It had been said that there Avas no danger in 
that neighborhood at present ; then what was this ? Only 
one of the chances of war, and a common one in that re- 
gion : an isolated soldier taken off by a bullet from be- 
hind a tree. She stood looking sorrowfully down upon 
the prostrate form; then a thought came to her. She 
stooj^ed to see if she could discover the identity of the 
slain man from anything his pockets contained. There 
was no money, but various little possessions, a soldier's 
wealth — a puzzle carved in wood and neatly fitted togeth- 
er, a pocket-knife, a ball of twine, a pipe, and a ragged 
song-book. At last she came upon what she had hoped 
to find — a letter. It was from the soldier's mother, full 
of love and little items of neighborhood news, and end- 
ing, " May God bless you, my dear and only son !" The 
postmark was that of a small village in Michigan, and the 
mother s name was signed in full. 

One page of the letter was blank; with the poor sol- 
dier's own pencil Anne dre\v upon this half sheet a sketch 
of his figure, lying there peacefully beside the little brook. 
Then she severed a lock of his hair, and went sadly away. 
July should come up and bury him ; but the mother, far 
away in Michigan, should have something more than the 
silence and heart-breaking suspense of that terrible word 
"missing." The lock of hair, the picture, and the poor 
little articles taken from his pockets would be her great- 
est earthly treasures. For the girl forgets her lover, and 
the wife forgets her husband; but the mother never for- 
gets her dear and only son. 

When Anne reached the farm-house it was nearly four 
o'clock. July's black anxious face met hers as she 
glanced through the open door of the main room ; he was 



AXNE. 383 

sitting" near the bed waving- a long plume of feathers back- 
ward and forward to keep the flies from the sleeping face 
below. Tlie negro came out on tiptoe, his enormous patch- 
ed old shoes looking like caricatures, yet making no more 
sound, as he stole along, than the small slippers of a wo- 
man. "Cap'en he orful disappointed 'cause you worn't 
yere at dinner-time," he whispered. "An' Mars' Redd, 
Mis' Redd's husband, you know, him jess come home, and 
they's bote gone 'cross de valley to see some i^usson they 
know that's sick ; but they'll be back 'fore long. And Di 
she's gone to look fer you, 'cause she was moughty on- 
easy 'bout yer. An' she's been gone so long that Fm 
moughty oneasy 'bout Di. P'r'aps you seen her, miss ?" 

No, Anne had not seen her. July looked toward the 
mountain-side anxiously. "Cap'en he's had 'em broth, 
and taken 'em medicine, and has jess settled down to a 
good long sleep ; reckon he won't wake uj) till sunset. If 
you'll allow, miss, I'll run up and look for Di." 

Anne saw that he intended to go, whether she wished 
it or not: the lazy fellow was fond of his wife. She 
gave her consent, therefore, on the condition that he 
would return speedily, and telling him of the dead soldier, 
suggested that when Farmer Redd returned the two men 
should go up the mountain together and bury him. Was 
there a burial-ground or church-yard in the neighbor- 
hood ? 

No; July knew of none; each family buried its dead 
on its own ground, " in a corner of a meddar." He went 
away, and Anne sat down to keep the watch. 

She moved the long plume to and fro, refraining from 
even looking at the sleeper, lest by some occult influence 
he might feel the gaze and waken, Mrs. Redd's clock in 
another room struck five. The atmosphere grew breath- 
less ; the flies became tenacious, almost adhesive ; the heat 
was intense. She knew that a thunder-storm must be 
near, but from where she sat she could not see the sky, 
and she was afraid to stop the motion of the waving fan. 
Each moment she hoped to hear the sound of July's re- 
turning footsteps, or those of the Redds, but none came. 
Then at last with a gust and a whirl of hot sand the still- 



S84 ANNE. 

ness was broken, and the storm was upon them. She ran 
to close the doors, but happily the sleeper was not awak- 
ened. The flies retreated to the ceiling-, and she stood 
looking at the black rushing rain. The thunder was not 
loud, but the lightning was almost incessant. She now 
hoped that in the cooler air his sleep would be even deep- 
er than before. 

But when the storm had sobered down into steady soft 
gray rain, so that she could open the doors again, she heard 
a voice speaking her name : 

"Anne." 

She turned. Heathcote was awake, and gazing at her, 
almost as he had gazed in health. 

Summoning all her self-possession, yet feeling drearily, 
unshakenly sure, even during the short instant of cross- 
ing the floor, that no matter what he might say (and per- 
haps he would say nothing), she should not swerve, and 
that this little moment, with all its pain and all its sweet- 
ness, would, for all its pain and all its sweetness, soon 
be gone, she sat down by the bedside, and taking up the 
fan, said, quietly: 

"I am glad you are so much better. As the fever has 
not returned, in a week or two you may hope to be quite 
strong again. Do not try to talk, please. I will fan you 
to sleep." 

"Very well," replied Heathcote, but reaching out as he 
spoke, and taking hold of the edge of her sleeve, which 
was near him. 

"Why do you do that?" said his nurse, smiling, like 
one w^ho humors the fancies of a child. 

" To keej) you from going away. You said you would 
be here at dinner, and you were not." 

"I was detained. I intended to be here, but — " 

She stopped, for Heathcote had closed his eyes, and she 
thought he was falling asleep. But no. 

"It is raining," he said presently, still with closed 
eyes. 

* ' Yes ; a summer shower. "' 

' ' Do you remember that thunder-storm when we were 
in the little cave ? You are changed since then.'' 



ANNE. 385 

She made no answer. 

' ' Your face has grown grave. No one would take you 
for a child now, but that day in the cave you were hard- 
ly more than one." 

" You too are changed," she answered, turning the con- 
versation from herself ; ' ' you are thin and pale. You 
must sleep and eat. Surrender yourself to that duty for 
the time being." She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerful- 
ness, but her ears were strained to catch the sound of 
footsteps. None came, and the rain fell steadily. She 
began to dread i^ain. 

Heathcote in his turn did not reply, but she was con- 
scious that his eyes were open, and tliat he was looking 
at her. At last he said, gently, 

"/should have placed it there, Anne." 

She turned; his gaze was fixed upon her left hand, 
and the gold ring given by the school-girls. 

" He is kind to you ? And you — are happy ?" he con- 
tinued, still gazing at the circlet. 

She did not speak ; she was startled and confused. He 
supposed, then, that she was married. Would it not be 
best to leave the error uncorrected ? But — could she suc- 
ceed in this ? 

"You do not answer," said Heathcote, lifting his eyes 
to her face. " Are you not happy, then ?" 

"Yes, I am happy," she answered, trying to smile. 
"But please do not talk; you are not strong enough for 
talking." 

"I hope he is not here, or expected. Do not let him 
come in here, Anne: promise me." 

"He is not coming." 

"He is in the army, I suppose, somewhere in the 
neighborhood; and you are here to be near him ?" 

"No." 

"Then how is it that you are here ?" 

" I have been in the hospitals for a short time as nurse. 
But if you persist in talking, I shall certainly leave you. 
Why not try to sleep ?" 

" He must be a pretty sort of fellow to let you go into 
the hospitals," said Heathcote, paving no heed to her 

25 



586 



ANNE. 



threat. "I have your fatal marriage notice, Anne; I 
have always kept it." 

' ' You have my marriage notice ?" she repeated, startled 
out of her caution. 

"Yes. Put your hand under my pillow and you will 
find my wallet ; the woman of the house has skillfully 
abstracted the money, hut fortunately she has not con- 
sidered a newspaper slip as of any value." He took the 
case from her hand, opened it, and gave her a folded 
square paper, cut from the columns of a New York jour- 
nal. Anne opened it, and read the notice of the marriage 
of ' ' Erastus Pronando, son of the late John Pronando, 
Esquire, of Philadelphia, and Angelique, daughter of the 
late William Douglas, surgeon. United States Army." 

The slip dropped from her hand. ' ' Pere Michaux must 
have sent it," she thought. 

"It was in all the New York and Philadelphia pa- 
pers for several days," said Heathcote. "There seemed 
to be a kind of insistence about it." 

And there was. Pere Michaux had hoped that the 
Eastern Pronandos would see the name, and, moved by 
some awakening of memory or affection, would make in- 
quiry for this son of the lost brother, and assist him on 
his journey through the crowded world. 

"I did not know that 'Anne' was a shortening of 
' Angelique' ; I thought yours was the plain old English 
name. But Helen knew ; I showed the notice to her." 

Anne's face altered ; she could not control the tremor 
that seized her, and he noticed it. 

' ' Are you not married then, after all ? Tell me, Anne, 
tell me. You can not deceive; you never could, poor 
child; I remember that well." 

She tried to rise, but he held her arm with both hands, 
and she could not bring herself to use force against that 
feeble hold. 

' ' Why should you not tell me what all the world is free 
to know?" he continued. "What difference does it 
make ?" 

"You are right; it makes no difference," she answer- 
ed, seating herself, and taking up the fan again. " It is 




SHE TRIED TO RISE. BUT HE HELD HER ARM WITH BOTH HANDS. 



ANNE. 387 

of no especial consequence. No, I am not married, Mr. 

Heathcote. Angelique is the name of my little sister Tita, 
of whom you have heard me speak ; we first called her 
Petite, then Tita. Mr. Prouando and Tita are married." 

"The same Pronando to whom you were engaged ?" 

"Yes. Heis— " 

" Oh, I do not care to hear anything about him. Give 
me your hand, Anne. Take off that ring." 

"No ; it was a present from my pupils," she said, draw- 
ing back with a smile, but at the same time an inward 
sigh of relief that the disclosure was over. "They — " 

''If you knew what I suffered w^hen I read that no- 
tice I" pursued Heathcote, without heeding her. "The 
Avorld seemed all wrong then forever. For there was 
something about you, Anne, which brought out what 
small good there was in my Avorthless self, and young as 
you w^ere, you yet in one way ruled me. I might have 
borne the separation itself, but the thought that any 
other man should call you wife w^as intolerable to me. 
I had — I still have it — a peculiar feeling about you. In 
some mysterious way you had come to be the one real 
faith of my life. I was bitterly hurt and angry when 
you ran away from me ; but angry as I was, I still 
searched for you, and would have searched again if 
Helen had not — But never mind that now. If I have 
loved you, Anne, you have loved me just as dearly. And 
now you are here, and I am here, let us ask no more 
questions, but just — be happy." 

' ' But, " said the girl, breathlessly, ' ' Helen— ?" Then 
she stopped. 

Heathcote was watching her. She tried to be calm, but 
her lips trembled. A little skill in deception now, poor 
Anne, would have been of saving help. Heathcote still 
watched her in silence — watched her until at last she turn- 
ed toward him. 

"Did you not know," he said, slowly meeting her eyes 
— " did you not know that Helen was — married ?" 

" Married ? And not to you ?" 

There was a perceptible pause. Then he answered. 
"Not to me." 



388 ^NNE. 

A silence followed. A whirl of conflicting feelings 
filled Anne's heart ; she turned her face away, blushing 
deeply, and conscious of it. "I hope she is happy," she 
murmured at last, striving to speak naturally. 

''I think she is." Then he stretched out his hands 
and took hers. "Turn this way, so that I can see you," 
he said, beseechingly. 

She turned, and it seemed to him that eyes never be- 
held so exquisite a face. 

" My darling, do you love me ? Tell me so. If I was 
not a poor sick fellow, I should take you in my arms and 
draw your sweet face down upon my shoulder. But, 
as it is—" He moved nearer, and tried to lift himself 
upon his elbow. 

There was a feebleness in the effort which went to 
Anne's heart. She loved him so deeply! They were 
both free now, and he was weak and ill. With a sudden 
impulse she drew nearer, so that his head could rest on 
her shoulder. He silently put out his hand ; she took it in 
hers ; then he closed his eyes as if content. 

As for Anne, she felt an outburst of happiness almost 
too great to bear; her breath came and went so quickly 
that Heathcote perceived it, and raising her hand he press- 
ed it to his lips. Still he did not open his eyes, or speak 
one word further to the blushing, beautiful woman whose 
arm was supporting him, and whose eyes, timid yet lov- 
ing, were resting upon his face. If he had been strong, 
she would never have yielded so far. But nothing ap- 
peals so powerfully to a woman's heart as the sudden 
feebleness of a strong man — the man she loves. It is so 
new and perilously sweet that he should be dependent 
upon her, that her arm should be needed to support him, 
that his weak voice should call her name with childish 
loneliness and impatience if she is not there. And so 
Anne at last no longer turned her eyes away, but looked 
down upon the face lying upon her shoulder — a face 
worn by illness and bronzed by exposure, but the same 
face still, the face of the summer idler at Caryl's, the 
face she had seen during those long hours in the sunset 
arbor, in the garden that morning, the face of the man 



ANNE. 389 

who had followed her westward, and who now, after long 
hopeless loneliness and pain, Avas with her again, and her 
own forever. A rush of tenderest pity came over her 
as she noted the hollows at the temples, and the dark 
shadows under the closed eyes. She bent her head, and 
touched his closely cut hair with her lips. 

"Do not," said Heathcote. 

She had not thought that he would perceive the girlish 
little caress; she drew back quickly. Then he opened 
his eyes. It seemed almost as if he had been trying to 
keep them shut. 

"It is of no use," he murmured, looking at her. 
"Kiss me, Anne. Kiss me once. Oh, my darling! my 
darling!" And with more strength than she supposed 
him to possess, he threw his arms round her, drew her 
lovely face down to his, and kissed her fondly, not once, 
but many times. 

And she, at first resisting love's sweet violence, at last 
yielded to it ; for, she loved him. 

The rain still fell; it was growing toward twilight. 
Footsteps were approaching. 

" It is Diana," said Anne. 

But Heathcote still held her. 

" Please let me go," she said, smiling happily. 

"Then tell me you love me." 

"You know I do, Ward," she answered, blushing deep- 
ly, yet with all the old honesty in her sincere eyes. 

' ' Will you come and say good-night to me if I let you 
go now?" 

"Yes." 

Her beautiful lips were near his; he could not help 
kissing her once more. Then he released her. 

The room was dim. Opening the door, she saw Diana 
and July coming through the shed toward her, their 
clothes wet and streaked with red clay. Diana explain- 
ed their long absence gravely. July had not been able 
to restrain his curiosity about the dead soldier, and when 
he finally found his wife, where she was searching for 
"miss," they were both so far up the mountain that he 
announced his intention of going to "find the pore fel- 



390 ANNE. 

low anyway," and that she might go with him or return 
homeward as she pleased. 

"Sence he would go, it was better fo' me to go too, 
miss," said the black wife, glancing at her husband with 
some severity. "An' while we was about it, we jess 
buried him." 

The sternly honest principles of Diana countenanced 
no rifling of pockets, no thefts of clothing; she would 
not trust July alone with the dead man. Who knew 
what temptation there might be in the shape of a pocket- 
knife ? Without putting her fears into words, however — 
for she always carefully guarded her husband's dignity — 
she accompanied him, stood by while he made his exam- 
ination, and then waited alone in the ravine while he w^ent 
to a farm-house a mile or two distant and returned with 
two other blacks, who assisted in digging the grave. The 
rain pattered down upon the leaves overhead, and at last 
reached her and the dead, whose face she had reverently 
covered with her clean white apron. When all was 
ready, they carefully lowered the body to its last resting- 
place, first lining the hollow with fresh green leaves, ac- 
cording to the rude unconscious poetry which the negroes, 
left to themselves, often display. Diana had then kneel- 
ed down and "offered a powerfu' prayer," so July said. 
Then, having made a "firs'-rate moun' ober him," they 
had come away, leaving him to his long repose. 

Half an hour later the Redds returned also. By con- 
trast with tlie preceding stillness, the little house seemed 
full to overflowing. Anne busied herself in household 
tasks, and let the others wait upon the patient. But she 
did not deny herself the pleasure of looking at him from 
the other side of the room now and then, and she smiled 
brightly whenever his eyes met hers and gave back her 
mute salutation. 

Heathcote was so much better that only July was to 
watch that night ; Diana was to enjoy an unbroken 
night's rest, with a pillow and a blanket upon the hay in 
the barn. July went out to arrange this bed for his wife, 
and then, as the patient was for the moment left alone, 
Anne stole down from her loft to keep her promise. 



ANNE. 391 

*' Good-night," she murmured, bending over him. " Do 
not keep me, good-night.'' 

He drew her toward him, but, laughing lightly and 
happily, she slipped from his grasp and was gone. 

When July returned, there was no one there but his 
patient, who did not have so quiet a night as they had an- 
ticipated, being restless, tormented apparently by trou- 
bled dreams. 



Chapter XXVI. 

" My only wickedness is that I love you ; my only goodness, the 
same." — Anonymous. 

"A Dunvaish in his prayer said: '0 God, show kindness toward 
the wicked ; for on the good Thou hast ah-eady bestowed kindness 
enough by having created them virtuous.' " — Saadi. 

Anne passed the next day in the same state of vivid 
haj)piness. The mere joy of the present was enough for 
her; she thought not as yet of the future, of next month, 
next week, or even to-morrow. It sufficed that they were 
there together, and free without wrong to love each oth- 
er. During the morning there came no second chance 
for their being alone, and Heathcote grew irritated as the 
slow hours passed. Farmer Redd esteemed it his duty, 
now that he was at home again, to entertain his guest 
whenever, from his open eyes, he judged him ready for 
conversation ; and Mrs. Eedd, July, and Diana seemed to 
have grown into six persons at least, from their contin- 
uous appearances at the door. At last, about five o'clock, 
Anne was left alone in the room, and his impatieut eyes 
immediately summoned her. Smiling at his irritation, 
she sat down by the bedside and took up the fan. 

"You need not do that," he said; "or rather, yes, do. 
It will keep you here, at any rate. Where have you been 
all day ?" 

They could talk in low tones unheard ; but through the 
open door Mrs. Bedd and Diana were visible, taking down 
clothes from the line. Heathcote watched them for a mo- 
ment, and then looked at his nurse with silent wistfulness. 



392 



ANNE. 



"But it is a great happiness merely to be together," 
said Anne, answering the look in words. 

' ' Yes, I know it ; but yet— Tell me, Anne, do you 
love me ?" 

' ' You know I do ; in truth, you have told me you 
knew it more times than was generous," she answered, al- 
most gayly. She was fairly light-hearted now with 
happiness. 

"That is not what I want. Look at me and tell me; 
do, dear." He spoke urgently, almost feverishly ; a som- 
bre restless light burned in his eyes. 

And then she bent forward and looked at him with so 
much love that his inmost heart was stirred. "I love 
you with all my heart, all my being," she murmured, 
even the fair young beauty of her face eclipsed by the light 
from the soul within. He saw then what he had seen be- 
fore — how deep was her love for him. But this time there 
was in it no fear ; only perfect trust. 

He turned his head away as if struggling with some hid- 
den emotion. But Anne, recovering herself, fell back 
into her former content, and began to talk with the child- 
like ease of happiness. She told him of her life, all that 
had happened since their parting. Once or twice, when 
her story approached their past, and she made some 
chance inquiry, he stopped her. ' ' Do not ask questions, " 
he said; "let us rest content with what we have;" and 
she, willing to follow his fancy, smiled and refrained. 
He lay silently watching her as she talked. Her faith in 
him was absolute ; it was part of her nature, and he knew 
her nature. It was because she was what she was that he 
had loved her, when all the habits and purposes of his 
life were directly opposed to it. 

"Anne," he said, "when will you marry me ?" 

"Whenever you wish," she answered, with what was 
to him the sweetest expression of obedience that a girFs 
pure eyes ever held. 

' ' Will you go with me, as soon as I am able, and let 
some clergyman in the nearest village marry us ?" 

"I would rather have Miss Lois come, and little Andre; 
still, Ward, it shall be as you wish." 




"weak, holding on by the trees. 



ANNE. 393 

He took her hand, and laid his hot cheek upon it; a 
moisture gathered in his eyes. ' ' You trust me entirely. 
You would put your hand in mine to-night and g^o out 
into the world with me unquestioning ?" 

"Yes." 

" Kiss me once, love — just once more." His face was 
altering; its faint color had faded, and a hrown pallor 
was taking its place. 

' ' You are tired, " said Anne, regretfully ; " I have talk- 
ed to you too long." What he had said made no espe- 
cial impression upon her ; of course she trusted him. 

"Kiss me," he said again; "only once more, love." 
There was a strange dulled look in his eyes ; she missed the 
expression which had lain there since the avowal of the 
day before. She turned; there was no one in sight — 
the women had gone to the end of the garden. She bent 
over and kissed him with timid tenderness, and as her 
lips touched his cheek, tears stole from his eyes under the 
closed lashes. Then, as steps were approaching, he turn- 
ed his face toward the wall, and covered his eyes with his 
hand. She thought that he was tired, that he had been 
overtaxed by all that had happened, and going out softly 
she cautioned the others. ' ' Do not go in at present ; I 
think he is falling asleep." 

"Well, then, I'll jest take this time to run across to 
Miss Pendleton's and git some of that yere fine meal; I 
reckon the captain will like a cake of it for supper," said 
Mrs. Redd. "And, Di, you go down to Dawson's and git 
a young chicken for briling. No one need say as how 
the captain don't have enough to eat yere." 

July was left in charge. Anne took her straw hat, 
passed through the garden, and into the wood-lot behind, 
where she strolled to and fro, looking at the hues of the 
sunset through the trees, although not in reality conscious 
of the colors at all, save as part of the great boundless 
joy of the day. 

She had been there some time, when a sound roused 
her ; she lifted her eyes. Was it a ghost approaching ? 

Weak, holding on by the trees, a shadow of his former 
self, it was Ward Heathcote v/ho was coming toward her 



394 



ANNE. 



as well as he could, swerving a little now and then, and 
moving unsteadily, yet walking. July had deserted his 
post, and the patient, left alone, had risen, dressed himself 
unaided, and was coming to find her. 

With a cry she went to meet him, and drew him down 
upon a fallen tree trunk. "What can you mean?" she 
said, kneeling down to support him. 

"Do not," he answered (and the voice war; unlike 
Heathcote's). "I will move along so that I can lean 
against this tree. Come where I can see you, Anne ; I 
have something to say." 

"Let us first go back to the house. Then you can 
say it." 

But he only made a motion of refusal, and, startled by 
his manner, she came and stood before him as he desired. 
He began to speak at once, and rapidly. 

"Anne, I have deceived you. Helen is married; but 
J— am her husband." 

She gazed at him. Not a muscle or feature had stirred, 
yet her whole face was altered. 

"I did not mean to deceive you; there was no plan. 
It was a wild temptation that swept over me suddenly 
when I found that you were free — not married as I had 
thought ; that you still loved me, and that you— did not 
know. I said to myself, let me have the sweetness of 
her love for one short day, one short day only, and then I 
will tell her all. Yet I might have let it go on for a while 
longer, Anne, if it had not been for your own words this 
afternoon : you would go with me anywhere, at any time, 
trusting me utterly, loving me as you only can love. 
Your faith has humiliated me ; your unquestioning trust 
has made me ashamed. And so I have come to tell you 
the deception, and to tell you also that I love you so that 
I will no longer trust myself. I do not say that I can 
not, but that I will not. And I feel the strongest self-re- 
proach of my life that I took advantage of your innocent 
faith to draw out, even for that short time, the proof 
which I did not need ; for ever since that morning in the 
garden, Anne, I have known that you loved me. It was 
that which hurt me in your marriage. But you are so 



ANNE. 395 

sweet, so dangerously sweet to me, and I — have not been 
accustomed to deny myself. This is no excuse ; I do not 
offer it as such. But remember what kind of a man I 
have been ; remember that I love you, and — forgive me." 

For the first time he now looked at her. Still and 
white as a snow statue, she met his gaze mutely. 

"I can say no more, Anne, unless you tell me you for- 
give me." 

She did not answer. He moved as if to rise and come 
to her, but she stretched out her hand to keep him back, 

' ' You are too weak, " she murmured, hurriedly. ' ' Yes, 
yes, I forgive you." 

"You will wish to know how it all happened," he be- 
gan again, and his voice showed his increasing exhaustion. 

" No ; I do not care to hear." 

"I will write it, then." 

There was a momentary pause ; he closed his eyes. 
The girl, noting, amid her own suffering, the deathly 
look upon his face, came to his side. ' ' You must go back 
to the house," she said. "Will my arm be enough ? Or 
shall I call July ?" 

He looked at her; a light came back into his eyes. 
"Anne," he whispered, "would not the whole world be 
well lost to us if we could have but love and each other ?" 

She returned his gaze. ' ' Yes, " she said, ' ' it would — if 
happiness were all." 

" Then you tvould be happy with me, darling ?" 

"Yes." 

"Alone with me, and — in banishment?" 

"In banishment, in disgrace, in poverty, pain, and 
death," she answered, steadily. 

"Then you will go with me, trusting to me only?" 
He was holding her hands now, and she did not withdraw 
them. 

" No," she answered; "never. If happiness were all, 
I said. But it is not all. There is something nearer, 
higher than haj^piness." She paused. Then rapidly 
and pa.ssionately these words broke from her: "Ward, 
Ward, you are far more than my life to me. Do not kill 
me, kill my love for you, my faith in you, by trying 



396 ANNE, 

to tempt me more. You could not succeed; I tell you 
plainly you could never succeed; but it is not on that 
account I speak. It is because it would kill me to lose my 
belief in you, my love, my only, only love !" 

"But I am not so good as you think," murmured 
Heathcote, leaning his head against her. His hands, still 
holding hers, were growing cold. 

"But you are brave. And you shall be true. Go 
back to Helen, and try to do what is right, as I also shall 
try." 

"But you — that is different. You do not care." 

" Not care!" she repeated, and her voice quivered and 
broke. "You knoic that is false." 

"It is. Forgive me." 

"Promise me that you will go back; promise for my 
sake. Ward. Light words are often spoken about a brok- 
en heart ; but I think, if you fail me now, my heart will 
break indeed." 

"What must I do?" 

"Go back to Helen — to your life, whatever it is." 

"And shall I see you again ?" 

"No." 

"It is too hard, too hard," he whispered, putting his 
arms round her. 

But she unclasped them. ' ' I have your promise ?" she 
said. 

"No." 

"Then I take it." And lightly touching his forehead 
with her lips, she turned and was gone. 

When July and Diana came to bring back their fool- 
hardy patient, they found him lying on the earth so still 
and cold that it seemed as if he were dead. That night 
the fever appeared again. But there was only Diana to 
nurse him now ; Anne was gone. 

Farmer Redd acted as guide and escort back to Peter- 
son's Mill ; but the pale young nurse would not stop, beg- 
ging Dr. Flower to send her onward immediately to Num- 
ber Two. She Avas so worn and changed that the sur- 
geon feared that fever had already attacked her, and he 
sent a private note to the surgeon of Number Two, re- 



ANNE. 39^ 

commending that Miss Douglas should at once he re- 
turned to Numher One, and, if possible, sent northward to 
her home. But when Anne arrived at Numher One, 
and saw again the sweet face of Mrs. Barstow, when she 
felt herself safely surrounded by the old work, she said 
that she would stay for a few days longer. While her 
hands were busy, she could think ; as she could not sleep, 
she would watch. She felt that she had now to learn life 
entirely anew ; not only herself, but the very sky, sun- 
shine, and air. The world was altered. 

On the seventh morning a letter came; it was from 
Heathcote, and had been forwarded from Peterson's Mill. 
She kept it until she had a half-hour to herself, and then, 
going to the bank of the river, she sat down under the 
trees and opened it. Slowly ; for it might be for good, or- 
it might be for evil ; but, in any case, it was her last. She 
would not allow herself to receive or read another. 

It was a long letter, written with pencil upon coarse 
blue-lined paper. After saying that the fever had disap- 
peared, and that before long he should try to rejoin his 
regiment, the words went on as follows : 

' ' I said that I would write and tell you all. When you 
ran away from me last year, I Avas deeply hurt ; I search- 
ed for you, but could find no clew. Then I went back 
eastward, joined the camping party, and after a day or 
two returned with them to Caryl's. No one suspected 
where I had been. From Caryl's we all went down to 
the city together, and the winter began. 

"I was, in a certain way, engaged to Helen; yet I 
was not bound. Nor was she. I liked her: she had 
known how to adapt herself to me always. But I had 
never been in any haste ; and I wondered sometimes why 
she held to me, when there were other men, worth more 
in every way than Ward Heathcote, who admired her 
as much as I did. But I did not then know that she 
loved me. I knoAV it now. 

"After our return to the city, I never spoke of you; 
but now and then she mentioned your name of her own 
accord, and I — listened. She was much surprised that you 
did not write to her; she knew no more where you were 



398 A^^NE. 

than I did, and hoped every day for a letter ; so did I. 
But you did not write. 

"All this time — I do not like to say it, yet it is part of 
the story — she made herself my slave. There was no- 
thing I could say or do, no matter how^ arbitrary, to which 
she did not yield, in which she did not acquiesce. No 
word concerning marriage w^as spoken, even our former 
vague lovers' talk had ceased; for, after you hurt me 
so deeply, Anne, I had not the heart for it. My temper 
was anything but pleasant. The winter moved on ; I had 
no plan ; I let things take their course. But I always 
expected to find you in some way, to see you again, un- 
til — that marriage notice appeared. I took it to Helen. 
' It is Anne, I suppose ?' I said. She read it, and an- 
swered, ' Yes.' She was deceived, just as I was." 

Here Anne put dow^n the letter, and looked off over 
the river. Helen knew that Tita's name was Angelique, 
and that the sister's was plain Anne. It was a lie direct. 
But Heathcote did not know it. "He shall never know 
through me," she thought, with stern sadness. 

The letter w^ent on: "I think she had not suspected 
me before, Anne — I mean in connection with you : she 
was always thinking of Rachel. But she did then, and 
I saw it. I was so cut up about it that I concealed no- 
thing. About a week after that she was thrown from 
her carriage. They thought she was dying, and sent for 
me. Miss Teller was in the hall waiting ; she took me 
into the library, and said that the doctors thought Helen 
might live if they could only rouse her, but that she 
seemed to be sinking into a stupor. With tears rolling- 
down her cheeks, she said, ' Ward, I know you love her, 
and she has long loved you. But you have said nothing, 
and it has worn upon her. Go to her and save her life. 
You can. 

"She took me into the room, and went out, closing the 
door. Helen was lying on a couch ; I thought she was 
already dead. But when I bent over her and spoke 
her name, slie opened her eyes, and knew me immediate- 
ly. I was shocked by her death-like face. It was all so 
sudden. I had left her the night before, dressed for a 



ANNE. 399 

ball. She whispered to me to lift her in my arms, so that 
she might die there ; but I was afraid to move lier, lest 
her suffering should increase. She begged with so much 
earnestness, however, that at last, gently as I could, I lift- 
ed and held her. 'I am going to die,' she whispered, 
'so I need not care any more, or try. I have always 
loved you, Ward. I loved you even when I married 
Eichard.' I thought her mind was wandering; and she 
must have seen that I did, because she spoke again, and 
this time aloud. ' I am perfectly myself. I tell you 
that I have always loved you ; you shall know it before I 
die.' Miss Teller said, 'And he loves you also, my dar- 
ling child ; he has told me so. Now, for Ms sake you 
will try to recover and be his wife.' 

' ' We were married two days later. The doctors ad- 
vised it, because when I was not there Helen sank rapid- 
ly. I took care of the poor girl for weeks ; she ate only 
from my hand. As she grew stronger, I taught her to 
walk again, and carried her in my arms up and down 
stairs. When at last she began to improve, she gained 
strength rapidly ; she is now well, save that she will nev- 
er be able to walk far or dance. I think she is happy. It 
seems a feeble thing to say, and yet it is something— I am 
always kind to Helen. 

"As for you — it was all a wild, sudden temptation. 

" I will go back to my regiment (as to my being in the 
army, after that attack on Sumter it seemed to me the 
only thing to do), I will make no attempt to follow you. 
In short, I will do— as well as I can. It may not be very 
well. W. H." 

That was all. Anne, miserable, lonelj^ broken-heart- 
ed, as she was, felt that she had in one way conquered. 
She leaned her head against the tree trunk, and sat for 
some time with her eyes closed. Then she tore the letter 
into fragments, threw them into the river, and watched 
the slow current bear them away. When the last one had 
disappeared, she rose and went back to the hospital. 

"The clean clothes have been brought in. Miss Doug- 
las," said the surgeon's assistant. ' ' Can you sort them ?'^ 

" Yes,'' she replied. And dull life moved on again. 



400 ANNE. 



Chapter XXVII. 

" Toil, Loneliness, Poverty, doing the right makes ye no 
easier." 

The next morning the new nurses, long delayed, sent 
by the Weston Aid Society, arrived at Number One, and 
Mary Crane, Mrs. Barstow, and Anne were relieved from 
duty, and returned to their Northern home. During the 
journey Anne decided that slie must not remain in Wes- 
ton. It was a hard decision, but it seemed to her inev- 
itable. This man whom she loved knew that her home 
was there. He had said that he would not follow her ; but 
could she depend ux)on his promise ? Even in saying that 
he w^ould try to do as well as he could, he had distinctly 
added that it might "not be very well." She must leave 
no temj)tation in his path, or her own. She must put it 
out of his power to find her, out of hers to meet him. 
She must go away, leaving no trace behind. 

She felt deeply thankful that at the present moment 
her movements were not cramped bj^ the wants of the 
children ; for if they had been in pressing need, she must 
have staid — have staid and faced the fear and the danger. 
Now she could go. But whither ? It would be hard to 
go out into the broad world again, this time more soli- 
tary than before. After much thought, she decided to 
go eastward to the half -house, Jeanne- Armande having 
given her permission to use it. It would be at least a 
shelter over her head, and probably old Nora would be 
glad to come and stay with her. With this little home 
as background, she hoped to be able to obtain pupils in 
the city, little girls to whom she could be day governess, 
giving lessons in music and French. But the pupils: 
how could she obtain them ? Whose influence could she 
hope for ? She could not go to Tante, lest Helen should 



ANNE. 401 

hear of lier presence. At first it seemed as if tliere were 
no one ; slie went over and over in vain her meagre list 
of friends. Suddenly a remembrance of the little German 
music-master, who had taught classical music, and hated 
Belzini, came to her ; he 'was no longer at the Moreau 
school, and she had his address. He had been especially 
kind. She sumuioned her courage and wrote to him. 
Herr Scheffers reply came promptly and cordially. "I 
have your letter received, and I remember you entirely. 
I know not now all I can promise, as my season of les- 
sons is not yet begun, but two little girls you can have at 
once for scales, though much they will not pay. But 
with your voice, honored Fraulein, a place in a church 
choir is the best, and for that I will do my very best en- 
deavor. But while you make a beginning, honored Frau- 
lein, take my wife and I for friends. Our loaf and our 
cup, and our hearts too, are all yours." 

The little German had liked Anne : this pupil, and this 
one only, had cheered the dull hours he had spent in the 
little third-story room, where he, the piano, and the screen 
had their cramped abode. Anne smiled as she gratefully 
read his warm-hearted letter, his offer of his cup and his 
loaf; she could hear him sajdng it — his " guxy' and his 
"loave," and "two liddle girls for sgales, though moclie 
they will not bay." She had written to old Nora also, 
and the answer (a niece acting as scribe) declared, with 
Hibernian effusiveness, and a curious assemblage of neg- 
atives, that she would be glad to return to the half -house 
on Jeanne- Armande's old terms, namely, her living, but 
no wages. She did not add that, owing to rheumatism, 
she was unable to obtain w^ork where she was ; she left 
Anna to find that out for herself. But even old Nora, 
bandaged in red flannel, her gait reduced to a limp, was a 
companion worth having when one is companionless. 
During the interval, Anne had received several letters 
from Miss Lois. Little Andre was better, but the doctors 
advised that he should remain where he was through the 
winter. Miss Lois wrote that she was willing to remain, 
in the hope of benefit to the suffering boj^, and how great 
a concession this was from the careful housekeeper and 

26 



402 ANNE. 

home-lover only Anne could know. (But she did not 
know how close the child had grown to Miss Lois's heart.) 
This new plan would prevent their coming to Weston at 
present. Thankful now for what would have been, under 
other circumstances, a great disappointment, Anne re- 
signed her position in the Weston school, and went away, 
at the last suddenly, and evading- all inquiries. Mrs. 
Green was absent, the woman in temporary charge of the 
lodgings, was not curious, and the lonely young teacher 
was able to carry out her design. She left Weston alone 
in the cold dawn of a dark morning, her face turned east- 
ward. 

It was a courageous journey ; only Herr Scheffel to rely 
upon, and the great stony-hearted city to encounter in 
the hard struggle for daily bread. Yet she felt that she 
must not linger in Weston; and she felt, too, that she 
must not add herself to Miss Lois's cares, but rather make 
a strong effort to secure a new position as soon as pos- 
sible, in order to send money to Andre. She thought that 
she would be safely hidden at the half-house. Heathcote 
knew that Jeanne-Armande was in Europe, and therefore 
he would not think of her in connection with Lancaster, 
but would suppose that she was still in Weston, or, if not 
there, then at home on her Northern island. In addition, 
one is never so well hidden as in the crowds of a large 
city. But when she saw the spires, as the train swept 
over the salt marshes, her heart began to beat : the blur 
of roofs seemed so vast, and herself so small and alone ! 
But she made the transit safely, and drove up to the door 
of the half -house in the red wagon, with Li as driver, at 
sunset. A figure was sitting on the steps outside, with a 
large bundle at its feet; it was Nora. Anne opened the 
door with Jeanne- Armande's key, and they entered to- 
gether. 

"Oh, wirra, wirra! Miss Douglas dear, and did ye 
know she'd taken out all the furrrniture ? Sure the ould 
shell is impty." It was true, and drearily unexpected. 

Jeanne-Armande, finding time to make a flying visit to 
her country residence the day before she sailed, had been 
seized with the sudden suspicion that certain articles were 



ANNE. 403 

missing, notably a green wooden pail and a window-cur- 
tain. The young priest, who had met her there by ap- 
pointment, and opened the door for her with his key (what 
mazes of roundabout ways homeward, in order to divert 
suspicion, Jeanne-Armande required of him that day!), 
was of the opinion that she was mistaken. But no; 
Jeanne-Armande was never mistaken. She knew just 
where she had left that pail, and as for the pattern of the 
flowers upon that curtain, she knew every petal. Hailnt- 
ed by a vision of the abstraction of all her household 
furniture, piece by piece, during her long absence — tables, 
chairs, pans, and candle - sticks following each other 
through back windows, moved by invisible hands — she 
was seized with an inspiration on the spot : she would sell 
off all her furniture by public sale that very hour, and 
leave only an empty house behind her. She knew that 
she was considered a mystery in the neighborhood ; pro- 
bably, then, people would come to a Mystery's sale, and 
pay good prices for a Mystery's furniture. Of one thing 
she was certain — no buyer in that region knew how to 
buy for prices as low as she herself had paid. Her meth- 
od of buying was genius. In five minutes a boy and a 
bell were secured, in half an hour the whole neighborhood 
had heard the announcement, and, as mademoiselle had 
anticipated, flocked to the sale. She attended to all ne- 
gotiations in person, still in her role of a Mystery, and 
sailed for Europe the next day in triumph, having in her 
pocket nearly twice the sum she had originally expended. 
She did not once think of Anne in connection with this. 
Although she had given her authority to use the half- 
house, and had intrusted to her care her own key, it seem- 
ed almost impossible that the young girl would wish to 
use it. For was she not admirably established at Wes- 
ton, with all the advantages of mademoiselle's own 
name and position behind her ? 

And thus it was that only bare walls met Anne's eyes 
as, followed by Nora, she went from room to room, ask- 
ing herself silently what she should do in this new emer- 
gency that confronted her. One door ihej found locked ; 
it was the door of the store-room: there must, then, be 



404 ANNE. 

something- within. Li was summoned to break the lock, 
and nothing loath, he broke it so well that it was use- 
less from that hour. Yes, here was something — the un- 
sold articles, carefully placed in order. A chair, a kitch- 
en table, an iron tea-kettle with a hole in it, and two straw 
beds — the covers hanging on nails, and the straw tied in 
bundles beneath ; there was also a collection of wooden 
boxes, which mademoiselle had endeavored, but without 
success, to dispose of as "old, superior, and well-seasoned 
kindling-wood." It was a meagre supply of furniture 
with which to begin housekeeping, a collection conspicu- 
ous for what it lacked. But xlnne, summoning courage, 
directed Li to carry down stairs all the articles, such as 
they were, while she cheered old Nora with the promise to 
buy whatever was necessary, and asked her to unpack 
the few supplies she had herself purchased on her way 
through the city. The kitchen stove was gone ; but 
there was a fire-place, and Li made a bright fire with some 
of the sui^erior kindling-wood, mended the kettle, filled 
it, and hung it over the crackling flame. The boy enjoy- 
ed it all greatly. He stuffed the cases with straw, and 
dragged them down stairs, he brought down the chair 
and table, aud piled up boxes for a second seat, he pinned 
up Anne's shawl for a curtain, and then volunteered to go 
to the store for whatever was necessary, insisting, how- 
ever, upon the strict allowance of two spoons, two plates, 
and two cups only. It was all like Robinson Crusoe and 
The Siviss Family Robinson, and more than two would 
infringe upon the severe paucity required by those ad- 
mirable narratives. When he returned with his burden, 
he affably offered to remain and take supper with them ; 
in truth, it was difficult to leave such a fascinating scene 
as two straw beds on the floor, and a kettle swinging 
over a hearth fire, like a gypsy camp — at least as Li im- 
agined it, for tliat essence of vagrant romanticism is ab- 
sent from American life, the so-called gypsies always turn- 
ing out impostors, with neither donkeys, tents, nor camp 
fires, and instead of the ancient and mysterious language 
described by Borrow, using generally the well-known and 
unpoetical dialect that belongs to modern and American- 



ANNE. 405 

ized Erin. At last, however, Li departed ; Anne fastened 
the door. Old Nora was soon asleep on the straw, but not 
her young mistress, in whose mind figures, added togeth- 
er and set opposite each other, were inscribing themselves 
like letters of fire on a black wall. She had not expect- 
ed any such outlay as would now be required, and the 
money she had brought with her would not admit it. 
At last, troubled and despairing, she rose from her hard 
couch, went to the window, and looked out. Overhead 
the stars were serenely shining; her mind went back to 
the little window of her room in the old Agency. These 
were the same stars; God was the same God; would He 
not show her a way ? Quieted, she returned to her straw, 
and soon fell asleep. 

In the tnorning they had a gypsy breakfast. The sun 
shone brightly, and even in the empty rooms the young 
day looked hopeful. The mistress of the house went in 
to the city on the morning train, and in spite of all lacks, 
in spite of all her trouble and care, it was a beautiful 
girl who entered the train at Lancaster station, and 
caused for a moment the chronically tired business men 
to forget their damp-smelling morning papers as they 
looked at her. For Anne was constantly growing more 
beautiful; nothing had had power as yet to arrest the 
strong course of nature. Sorrow had but added a more 
ripened charm, since now the old child-like openness 
was gone, and in its place was a knowledge of the depth 
and the richness and the pain of life, and a reticence. 
The open page had been written upon, and turned down. 
Riding on toward the city, she was, however, as uncon- 
scious of any observation she attracted as if she had been 
a girl of marble. Hers was not one of those natures 
which can follow at a time but one idea ; yet something 
of the intensity which such natures have — the nature of 
all enthusiasts and partisans — was hers, owing to the 
strength of the few^ feelings which absorbed her. For 
the thousand-and-one changing interests, fancies, and im- 
pulses which actuate most young girls there was in her 
heart no room. It was not that she thought and imagined 
less, but that she loved more. 



406 



ANNE. 



HeiT Scheffel received her in his small parlor. It was 
over the shop of a musical instrument maker, a German 
also. . Anne looked into his small show-window while 
she was waiting for the street door to be opened, noted 
the great brass tubes disposed diagonally, the accordions 
in a rampart, the pavement of little music-boxes with 
views of Switzerland on their lids, and the violins in 
apotheosis above. Behind the inner glass she saw the in- 
strument maker himself dusting a tambourine. She im- 
agined him playing on it all alone on rainy evenings 
for company, with the other instruments looking on in a 
friendly way. Here Herr Scheffel's cheery wife opened 
the door, and upon learning the name, welcomed her 
visitor heartily, and ushered her up the narrow stairway. 

"How you haf zhanged!" said Herr Scheffel, lifting 
his hands in astonishment as he met her at the entrance. 
' ' But not for the vorse, Fraulein. On the gontrary !" He 
bowed gallantly, and brought forward his best arm-chair, 
then bowed again, sat down opposite, folded his hands, 
and was ready for business or pleasure, as she saw fit to 
select. Anne had come to him hoping, but not expecting. 
Fortune favored her, however; or rather, as usual, some 
one had taken hold of Fortune, and forced her to extend 
her favor, the some one in this instance being the little 
music-master himself, who had not only bestowed two 
of his own scholars as a beginning, but had also obtained 
for her a trial place in a church choir. He now went 
with her without delay to the residence of the little pu- 
pils, and arranged for the first lesson ; then he took her 
to visit the contralto of the choir, whose good-will he had 
already besought for the young stranger. The contralto 
was a thin, disappointed little woman, with rather a bad 
temper ; but as she liked Anne's voice, and hated the or- 
ganist and tenor, she mentally organized an alliance of- 
fensive and defensive on the spot, contralto, soprano, and 
basso against the other two, with possibilities as to the 
rector thrown in. For, as the rector regularly attended 
the rehearsals (under the mild delusion that he was di- 
recting the choir), the contralto hoped that the new so- 
prano's face, as well as voice, would drav/ him out of 



ANNE. 407 

his guarded neutrality, and g-ive to their side the balance 
of power. So, being in a friendly mood, she went over 
the anthems with Anne, and when the little rehearsal 
was ended, Herr ScheflPel took her thin hand, and bow- 
ed over it profoundly. Miss Pratt was a native of Maine, 
and despised romance, yet she was not altogether dis- 
pleased with that bow. Sunday morning came; the new 
voice conquered. Anne was engaged to fill the vacant 
place in the choir. Furniture was now purchased for the 
empty little home^ but very sparingly. It looked as 
though it would be cold there in the winter. But — win- 
ter was not yet come. 

Slowly she gained other pupils; but still only little 
girls "for the sgales," as Herr SchefFel said. The older 
scholars for whom she had hoped did not as yet seek her. 
But the little household lived. 

In the mean while Pere Michaux on the island and Miss 
Lois at the springs had both been taken by surprise by 
Anne's sudden departure from Weston. They knew no- 
thing of it until she Avas safely in the half -house. But 
poor Miss Lois, ever since the affair of Tita and East, had 
cynically held that there was no accounting for anybody 
or anything in this world, and she therefore remained si- 
lent. Pere Michaux divined that there was something be- 
hind; but as Anne offered no explanation, he asked no 
question. In truth, the old priest had a faith in her not 
unlike that which had taken possession of Heathcote. 
What was it that gave these two men of the world this 
faith ? It was not her innocence alone, for many are in- 
nocent. It was her sincerity, combined with the pe- 
culiar intensity of feeling which lay beneath the surface 
— an intensity of which she was herself unconscious, but 
which their eyes could plainly perceive, and, for its great 
rarity, admire, as the one perfect pearl is admired among 
the thousands of its compeers by those who have know- 
ledge and experience enough to appreciate its flawless- 
ness. But the majority have not this knowledge; they 
admire mere size, or a pear-like shape, or perhaps some 
eccentricity of color. Thus the perfect one is guarded, 
and the world is not reduced to despair. 



408 ANNE. 

During- these clays in the city Anne had thought often 
of Helen. Her engagements were all in another quarter, 
distant from Miss Teller's I'esidence ; she would not have 
accepted pupils in that neig-hborhood. But it was not 
probable that any would be olTered to her in so fashion- 
able a locality. She did not allow herself even to ap- 
proach that part of the city, or to enter the streets lead- 
ing to it, yet many times she found herself longing" to see 
the house in spite of her determination, and thinking that 
if she wore a thick veil, so that no one would recognize 
her, there would be no danger, and she might catch a 
glimpse of Miss Teller, or even of Helen. But she nev- 
er yielded to these longings. October passed into Novem- 
ber, and November into December, and she did not once 
transgress her rules. 

Early in December she obtained a new pupil, her first 
in vocal music. She gave two lessons without any unu- 
sual occurrence, and then — Of all the powers that make 
or mar us, the most autocratic is Chance. Let not the 
name of Fate be mentioned in its presence ; let Luck hide 
its head. For Luck is but the man himself, and Fate 
deals only with great questions ; but Chance attacks all 
irrelevantly and at random. Thoug'h man avoids, ar- 
ranges, labors, and plans, one stroke from its wand de- 
stroys all. Anne had avoided, arranged, labored, and 
planned, yet on her way to give the third lesson to this 
new pupil she came suddenly upon — Helen. 

On the opposite side a carriage had stopped ; the foot- 
man opened the door, and a servant came from the house 
to assist its occupant. Anne's eyes by chance were rest- 
ing upon the group. She saw a lady lifted to the pave- 
ment; then saw her slowly ascend the house steps, while 
a maid followed with shawls and wraps. It w^as Helen. 
Anne's eyes recognized her instantly. She was un- 
changed — proud, graceful, and exquisitely attired as ever, 
in spite of her slow step and need of assistance. Invol- 
untarily the girl opposite had paused; then, recovering 
herself, she drew down her veil and walked on, her 
heart beating rapidly, her breath coming in throbs. But 
no one had noticed her. Helen was already within the 



^v^ ^^y 




ilV£ 



L ' /" 



1 



\ 



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a^ 



i-^*^ 




"saw her slowly ascend the house steps.' 



ANNE. 409 

house, and the servant was closing the door ; then the foot- 
man came down the steps, sprang up to his place, and the 
carriage rolled away. 

She went on to her pupil's residence, and, quietly as 
she could, asked, ujDon the first opportunity, her question. 

' ' A lady who was assisted up the steps ? Oh yes, I 
know whom you mean; it is Mrs. Ward Heathcote," re- 
plied the girl-pupil. "Isn't she too lovely! Did you 
see her face ?'' 

"Yes. Does she live in that house ?" 

"I am delighted to say that she does. She used to 
live with her aunt. Miss Teller, but it seems that she in- 
herited this old house over here from her grandfather, 
who died not long ago, and she has taken a fancy to live 
in it. Of course / think all her fancies are seraphic, and 
princij)ally this one, since it has brought her near us. I 
look at her half the time ; just gaze and gaze !" Cora was 
sixteen, and very pretty; she talked in the dialect of her 
age and set. Launched now on a favorite topic, she rush- 
ed on, while the teacher, with downcast eyes, listened, and 
rolled and unrolled the sheet of music in her hands. Mrs. 
Heathcote's beauty ; Mrs. Heathcote's wealth ; Mrs. 
Heathcote's wonderful costumes; Mrs. Heathcote's ro- 
mantic marriage, after a fall from her carriage; Mrs. 
Heathcote's husband, "'chivalrously in the army, with a 
pair of eyes^ Miss Douglas, which, I do assure you, are — 
well, murderously beautiful is not a Avord to express it! 
Not that he cares. The most indifferent person ! Still, 
if you could see them, you would Jcnoiv what I mean." 
Cora told all that she knew, and more than she knew. 
The two households had no acquaintance, Anne learned ; 
the school-girl had obtained her information from other 
sources. There would, then, be no danger of discovery 
in that way. The silent listener could not help listening 
while Cora said that Captain Heathcote had not returned 
home since his first departure ; that he had been seriously 
ill somewhere in the West, but having recovered, had im- 
mediately returned to his regiment without coming home 
on furlough, as others always did, after an illness, or even 
the pretense of one, which conduct Cora considered so 



410 ANNE. 

"perfectly grand" that she wondered "the papers" did 
not "blazon it aloft." At last even the school-girl's volu- 
bility and adjectives were exhausted, and the monologue 
came to an end. Then the teacher gave her lesson, and 
the words she had heard sounded in her ears like the roar 
of the sea in a storm — it seemed as though she must be 
speaking loudly in order to drown it. But her pupil no- 
ticed nothing, save that Miss Douglas was more quiet than 
usual, and perhaps more pale. When she went away, she 
turned eastward, in order not to pass the house a second 
time — the house that held Helen. But she need not have 
• aken the precaution; hers was not a figure upon which 
the eyes of Mrs. Heathcote would be likely to dwell. In 
the city, unfashionable attire is like the ring of Gyges, it 
renders the wearer, if not invisible, at least unseen. 

That night she could not sleep; she could do nothing 
but think of Helen, Helen, her once dearly loved friend 
— Helen, his wife. She knew that she must give up this 
new danger, and she knew also that she loved the danger 
— these chances of a glimpse of Helen, Helen's home, and 
— yes, it might be, at some future time, Helen's husband. 
But she conquered herself again. In the morning she 
wrote a note to Cora's mother, saying that she found her- 
self unable to continue the lessons ; as Cora had the man- 
uscript music-books which Dr, Douglas had himself pre- 
pared for his daughter when she was a little girl on the 
island, she added that she would come for them on Mon- 
day, and at the same time take leave of her pupil, from 
whom she parted with regret, 

Saturday and Sunday now intervened. At the choir 
rehearsal on Saturday a foreboding came over her; oc- 
cult malign influences seemed hovering in the air. The 
tenor and organist, the opposition party, were ominous- 
ly affable. In this church there was, as in many anoth- 
er, an anomalous "music committee," composed appar- 
ently of vestrymen, but in reality of vestrymen's wives. 
These wives, spurred on secretly by the tenor and organ- 
ist, had decided that Miss Douglas was not the kind of so- 
prano they wished to have. She came into the city by 
train on the Sabbath day ; she was dressed so plainly and 



ANNE. 411 

unfashionably that it betokened a want of proper respect 
for the congregation; in addition, and in spite of this 
X)lain attire, there was something about her which made 
"the gentlemen turn and look at her." This last was 
the fatal accusation. Poor Anne could not have dis- 
proved these charges, even if she had known what they 
were; but she did not. Her foreboding of trouble had 
not been at fault however, for on Monday morning came 
a formal note of dismissal, worded with careful polite- 
ness; her services would not be required after the follow- 
ing Sunday. It was a hard blow. But the vestrymen's 
wives preferred the other candidate (friend of the organist 
and tenor), who lived with her mother in the city, and 
patronized no Sunday trains ; whose garments were nicely 
adjusted to the requirements of the position, following the 
fashions carefully indeed, but at a distance, and with 
chastened salaried humility as well ; who sang correctly, 
but with none of that fervor which the vestrymen's wives 
considered so "out of place in a church" ; and whose face 
certainly had none of those outlines and hues which so 
reprehensibly attracted "the attention of the gentle- 
men." And thus Anne was dismissed. 

It was a bitterly cold morning. The scantily furnish- 
ed rooms of the half -house looked dreary and blank; old 
Nora, groaning with rheumatism, sat drawn up beside the 
kitchen stove. Anne, who had one French lesson to give, 
and the farewell visit to make at the residence of Mrs. 
Iverson, Cora's mother, went in to the city. She gave 
the lesson, and then walked down to the Scheffels' lodg- 
ing to bear the dark tidings of her dismissal. The musical 
instrument maker's window was frosted nearly to the top ; 
but he had made a round hole inside with a hot penny, 
and he was looking through it when Anne rang the street 
bell. It was startling to see a human eye so near, iso- 
lated by the frost-work — an eye and nothing more; but 
she was glad he could amuse himself even after that 
solitary fashion. Herr Scheffel had not returned from his 
round of lessons. Anne waited some time in the small 
warm crowded room, where growing plants, canary- 
birds, little plaster busts of the great musicians, the piano, 



412 ANNE. 

and the stove crowded each other cheerfully, but he did 
not come. Mrs. SchefPel urged her to remain all night. 
' ' It ees zo beetter cold. " But Anne took leave, i^romising" 
to come again on the morrow. It was after four o'clock, 
and darkness was not far distant; the piercing wind 
swept through the streets, blowing the flinty dust before 
it; the ground was frozen hard as steel. She made her 
farewell visit at Mrs. Iverson's, took her music-books, and 
said good-by, facing the effusive regrets of Cora as well 
as she could, and trying not to think how the money 
thus relinquished would be doubly needed now. Then 
she went forth into the darkening street, the door of the 
warm, brightly lighted home closing behind her like a 
knell. She had chosen twilight purposely for this last 
visit, in order that she might neither see nor be seen. She 
shivered now as the wind struck her, clasped the heavy 
books with one arm, and turned Avestward on her way 
to the railway station. It seemed to her that the city 
held that night no girl so desolate as herself. 

As she was passing the street lamp at the first corner, 
some one stopped suddenly. ' ' Good heavens ! Miss 
Douglas— Anne— is that you ?" said a voice. She looked 
up. It was G-regory Dexter. 



Chapter XXVIII. 



"Loke who that. . . .most intendeth ay 
To do the generous deedes that he can, 
And take him for the greatest gentleman." 

— Chaucer. 

^' Anne ! Is it you ?" repeated Dexter. 

"Yes," she replied, having seen that it was impossible 
to escape, since he was standing directly in her path. 
Then she tried to smile. "I should not have thought 
you would have known me in this twilight." 

"I believe I should know you anywhere, even in total 
darkness. But where are you going ? I will accompany 
you." 

"I am on my way to X station, to take a train." 



ANNE. 413 

"Let me cany those books for you. X station ? That 
is at some distance ; would it not be better to have a car^ 
riage ? Here, boy, run and call a carriage. There will 
be a half-dollar for you if you make haste." 

He was the same as ever, prompt, kind, and disposed 
to have his own way. But Anne, who on another occa- 
sion might have objected, now stood beside him unop- 
posing. She teas weary, cold, and disheartened, and she 
icas glad he was there. He had made her take his arm 
immediately, and even that small support was comfort- 
ing. The carriage came, they rolled away, Anne lean- 
ing back against the cushions, and breathing in the grate- 
ful sense of being cared for and x^rotected, taken from 
the desolate and darkening streets which otherwise she 
must have traversed alone. 

"I only arrived in town to-day," Dexter was saying; 
"and, on my way to a friend's house where I am to dine, 
I intended calling upon Mrs. Heathcote. I was going 
there when I met you. I should have inquired about 
you immediately, for I have but just seen the account of 
the disposal of Miss Vanhorn's estate, and was thinking 
of you. I supposed, Miss Douglas, that you were to be her 
heir." 

"No." 

"She certainly allowed me to suppose so." 

"I do not think she ever had any such intention," re- 
plied Anne. 

"You are living near the city ?" 

"Yes; at Lancaster. I give lessons in town." 

"And you come in and out on these freezing days, and 
walk to and from the station V 

" It is not always so cold." 

"Very well ; I am going as far as Lancaster with you," 
said Dexter. "I hope I shall be welcome." 

" Mr. Dexter, please do not." 

But he simply smiled and threw back his head in his 
old dictatorial wa}^, helped her from the carriage, bought 
tickets, secured for her the best seat in the car, and took 
his place beside her ; it seemed to Anne that but a few min- 
utes had passed when they heard "Lancaster, "and step- 



414 ANNE. 

ping out on the little platform, found the faithful Li in 
waiting, his comforter tied over his ears, and jumping up 
and down to keep himself warm. Anne had not ordered 
the red wagon, and he was not therefore allowed to bring 
it out; but the little freckled knight-errant had brought 
himself instead as faithful escort homeward. 

"Is there no carriage here, or any sort of a vehicle ?" 
said Dexter, in his quick, authoritative way. "Boy, 
bring a carriage." 

"There ain't none; but you can have the red wagon. 
Horse good, and wagon first-rate. It '11 be a dollar," 
answered Li. 

"Go and get it, then." 

The boy was gone like a dart, and in less time than 
any one else would have taken, he was bac'-: with the 
wagon, and Mr. Dexter (in spite of her remoii ice) was 
accom.panying Anne homeward in the icy *.iarkness. 
" But you will lose the return train," she said. 

" I intend to lose it." 

When they stopped at the gate, no light was visible; 
Anne knocked, but crippled old Nora was long in com- 
ing. When she did open the door, it was a room nearly 
as cold as the air outside into which the guest was usher- 
ed. As Li was obliged to return with the horse, his will- 
ing hands were absent, and the young mistress of the 
house went out herself, brought in candles and kindling- 
wood, and was stooping to light the fire, when Dexter 
took the wood from her, led her to a chair, seated her des- 
potically, and made the fire himself. Then, standing be- 
fore it, he looked all round the room, slowly and mark- 
edly and in silence ; afterward his eyes came back to her. 
"So this is where you live — all the home you have!" 

"It is but a temporary home. Some day I hope to 
go back to the island," replied Anne. 

' ' When you have, by teaching, made money enough to 
live upon, I suppose. It looks like it /lere," he said, with 
sarcastic emphasis. 

"It has not been so cold before," answered Anne. 
"The house has an empty look, I acknowledge; that is 
because I supposed it was furnished ; but finding it bare, 



ANNE. 415 

I decided to purchase only necessary articles. What is 
the use of buying much for a temporary home ?" 

' ' Of course. So much better to do without, especially 
in this weather!" 

"I assure you we have not been uncomfortable until, 
perhaps, to-night." 

' ' May I ask the amount. Miss Douglas, of your present 
income ?" 

" I do not think you ought to ask," said the poverty- 
stricken young mistress, bravely. 

"But I do ask. And you — will answer." 

"It has been, although not large, sufficient for our 
needs," replied Anne, who, in spite of her desire to hide 
the truth from him, Avas yet unable to put the statement 
into the present tense ; but she hoped that he would not 
notice it. 

On the contrary, however. Dexter answered instantly : 
"Has been ? Then it is not now ?" 

"I have recently lost my place in a church choir; 
but I hope soon to obtain another position." 

' ' And in the mean time you live on — hope ? Forgive 
me if I seem inquisitive and even harsh. Miss Douglas; 
but you do not realize how all this impresses me. The 
last time I saw you you were richly dressed, a favorite 
in a luxurious circle, the reputed heiress of a large for- 
tune. Little more than a year passes, and I meet you 
in the street at twilight, alone and desolate; I come to 
your home, and find it cold and empty; I look at you, 
and note your dress. You can offer me nothing, hardly 
a fire. It hurts me, Anne — hurts me deeply — to think 
that all this time I have had every luxury, while you 
have suffered." 

"No, not suffered," she replied. But her voice trem- 
bled. This strong assertive kindness touched her lonely 
heart keenly. 

"Then if you have not suffered as yet — and I am 
thankful to hear you say it — you will suffer; or rather 
you might have suffered if I had not met you in time. 
But never again, Anne — never again. Why, my child, 
do you not remember that I begged you to be my wife ? 



416 ANNE. 

Shall she who, if she had willed it, would now have been 
so near and dear to me, be left to encounter toil and pri- 
vation, while Jhave abundance ? Never, Anne — never !" 

He left his place, took her hand, and held it in his 
warm grasp. There was nothing save friendly earnest- 
ness in his eyes as they met her upward look, and seeing 
this, she felt herself leaning as it were in spirit upon 
him: she had indeed need of aid. He smiled, and com- 
prehended all without another word. 

"I must go on the ten-o'clock train," he said, cheer- 
fully, coming back to daily life again. "And before I 
go, in some way or another, that good Irish goblin of 
yours must manufacture a supper for me ; from appear- 
ances, I should say she had only to Avave her broom- 
stick. When I met you I was on my way to dine with 
some friends. What their estimation of me is at this mo- 
ment I am afraid to think ; but that does not make me 
any the less hungry. With your permission, therefore, 
I will take off this heavy overcoat, and dine here." As 
he spoke he removed his large shaggy overcoat — a hand- 
some fur-lined Canadian garment, suited to his strong fig- 
ure and the bitter weather, appearing in evening dress, 
with a little spray of fern in his button-hole. "Now," he 
said, " I am going out to plead with the goblin in person." 

"I will go," said Anne, laughing, won from her de- 
pression by his buoyant manner. 

" On the contrary, you will stay; and not only that, 
but seated precisely where I placed you. I will en- 
counter the goblin alone." He opened the door, went 
through, and closed it behind him. Soon Anne heard the 
sound of laughter in the kitchen, not only old Nora's 
hearty Irish mirth, but Li's shriller voice added to it. 
For the faithful Li had hastened back, after the old horse 
was housed, in order to be in readiness if Miss Douglas, 
owing to her unexpected visitor, required anything. 
What Dexter said and did in that bare, dimly lighted 
kitchen that night was never known, save from results. 
But certainly he inspired both Nora, Li, and the stove. 
He returned to the parlor, made up the fire with so much 
skill that it shone out brightly, and then sat down, allow- 



ANNE. 417 

ing Anne to do nothing save lean back in the low chair, 
which he had cushioned for her with his shaggy coat. 
Before long Li came in, first with four lighted candles in 
new candlesticks, which he disposed about the room ac- 
cording to his taste, and then, later, with table-cloth and 
plates for the dining-table. The boy's face glowed w^th 
glee and exercise ; he had already been to the store twice 
on a run, and returned loaded and breathless, but tri- 
umphant. After a while pleasant odors began to steal in 
from the kitchen, underneath all the inspiring fragrance 
of coffee. At last the door opened, and Nora herself hob- 
bled in, bringing a covered dish, and then a second, and 
then a third, Li excitedly handing them to her from 
the kitchen entrance. When her ambition was aroused, 
the old Irishwoman was a good cook. It had been 
aroused to-night by Dexter's largess, and the result was 
an appetizing although nondescript repast, half dinner, 
half high-tea. The room was now brightly illuminated; 
the fire-light danced on the bare floor. Dexter, standing 
by the table, tall and commanding, his face full of friend- 
liness, seemed to Anne a personification of kindly aid 
and strength. She no longer made any objection, but 
obeyed him smilingly, even as to where she should sit, and 
what she should eat. His sudden appearance, at the mo- 
ment of all others when everything seemed to have failed, 
was comfort too penetrating to be resisted. And why 
should it be resisted ? There was no suggestion in his 
manner of a return to the old subject ; on the contrary, 
he had himself spoken of it as a thing of the past. He 
would not repeat his old request — would not wish to re- 
peat it. 

After the repast was over, and Nora and Li were joy- 
ously feasting in the kitchen, he drew his chair nearer to 
hers, and said, "Now tell me about yourself, and w^hat 
your life has been since we parted." For up to this time, 
after those few strong words in the beginning, he had 
spoken only on general topics, or at least upon those 
not closely connected with herself. 

Anne, however, merely outlined her present life and 
position, clearly, but without explanation. 

27 



418 ANNE. 

"And Mrs. Heatbcote does not know you are here ?" 

"She does not know, and she must not know. I have 
your promise, Mr. Dexter, to reveal nothing." 

' ' You have my promise, and I will keep it. Still, I do 
not comprehend — " 

" It is not possible that you should comprehend. And 
in addition to keeping- my secret, Mr. Dexter, you must 
tell me nothing of her, or of any of the people who were 
at Caryl's." 

" It is a great gulf fixed ?" 

"Yes." 

He looked at her in silence ; she was quiet and thought- 
ful, her gaze resting on the fire. After a while she said 
again, "You will remember ?" 

"Yes. I never had the talent of forgetting." 

Soon afterward he went away, with Li as guide. As 
he took her hand at parting, he said, ' ' Are you coming 
in to the city to-morrow ?" 

"Yes; I must see Herr Scheffel." 

"Will you let me meet you somewhere ?" 

After a moment's hesitation, she answered, "I would 
rather not." 

"As you please. But I shall come and see you on 
Wednesday, then. Good-night. " He went out in the in- 
tense country darkness, preceded by Li, who had dis- 
posed his comforter about him in such a manner as to 
look as much as possible like the shaggy overcoat, which, 
in his eyes, was fit for the Czar of all the Russias in his 
diamond crown. 

The next day was even colder. Anne went in to the 
city, gave one lesson, and then faced the bitter wind 
on her way down to Herr Scheffel's lodgings. Her 
heart was not so heavy, in spite of the cold, as it had 
been the day before, since between that time and this she 
had heard the cordial voice of a friend. 

The musical instrument maker's window was entirely 
frozen over, the frost was like a white curtain shutting 
him out from the world ; it was to be hoped that he found 
comfort in playing on his tambourine within. This time 
Herr Scheffel was at home, and he had a hope concerning 



i 



ANNE. 419 

a place in another choir. Anne returned to Lancaster 
cheered. As she walked homeward from the railway 
station down the hard country road, darkness was fall- 
ing, and she wondered why the faithful Li was not there 
as usual to meet her. When she came within sight of 
the half-house, it was blazing with light ; from every win- 
dow radiance streamed, smoke ascended from the chim- 
neys, and she could see figures within moving about as if 
at work. What could it mean ? She went up the steps, 
opened the door, and entered. Was this her barren 
home ? 

Workmen were putting the finishing touches to what 
seemed to have been an afternoon's labor; Li, in a fever 
of excitement, was directing everybody. Through the 
open door Nora could be seen moving to and fro amid 
barrels, boxes, and bags. The men had evidently re- 
ceived their orders, for as soon as the young mistress of 
the house appeared they hastily concluded their labors, 
and, taking their tools, vanished like so many genii of 
the ring. Anne called them back, but they were already 
far down the road. Li and Nora explained together that 
the men and two wagon-loads of furniture had arrived 
at the door of the half -house at two o'clock, and that the 
head workman, showing Mr. Dexter's card, had claimed 
entrance and liberty to carry out his orders; he had a 
rough plan of the rooms, sketched by Dexter, and was to 
follow his directions. Li and Nora, already warm ad- 
herents, entered into the scheme with all their hearts, and 
the result was that mademoiselle's little house was now 
carpeted, and warmed, and filled from top to bottom. 
The bare store-room was crowded, the cupboards garnish- 
ed ; there were easy - chairs, curtains, pictures, and even 
flowers — tea-roses in a vase. The furniture was perhaps 
too massive, the carpets and curtains .too costly for the 
plain abode; Dexter always erred on the side of mag- 
nificence. His lavishness had been brought up at Caryl's 
as a testimony against him, for it was a decided evidence 
of newness. But on this gloomy freezing winter night 
no one could have the heart to say that the rich fabrics 
were not full of comfort both to the eye and touch, and 



420 ANNE. 

Anne, sinking into one of the easy-chairs, uncertain what 
to do, was at least not at all uncertain as to the comfort 
of the cushioned back ; it was luxurious. 

Later, in her own room, she sat looking" at the unex- 
pected g-if ts which faced her from all sides. What should 
she do ? It was not right to force them upon her ; and 
yet how like him was the lavish quick generosity ! In her 
poverty the gift seemed enormous ; yet it was not. The 
little home possessed few rooms, had seemed hardly more 
than a toy house to the city workmen who had hastily 
filled it. But to Anne it seemed magical. Books had 
been bought for her also, the well-proved standard works 
which Dexter always selected for his own reading. In 
his busy life this American had not had time to study 
the new writers; he was the one person left who still 
quoted Addison. After looking at the books, Anne, open- 
ing the closet door by chance, saw a long cedar case upon 
the floor ; it was locked, but the key was in an envelope 
bearing her name. She opened the case ; a faint fra- 
grance floated out, as, from its wrappings, she drew forth 
an India shawl, dark, rich, and costly enough for a duch- 
ess. There was a note inside the case from Dexter — 
a note hastily written in pencil : 

"Dear Miss Douglas,— I do not know whether this 
is anything you can wear, but at least it is warm. On 
the night I first met you you were shivering, and I have 
thought of it ever since. Please accept the shawl, there- 
fore, and the other trifies, from your friend, G. D." 

The trifles were furs — sable. Here, as usual. Dexter 
had selected tlie costly ; he knew no other way. And 
thus surrounded by all the new luxury of the room, 
with the shawl and the furs in her hands, Anne stood, an 
image of perplexity. 

The next day the giver came out. She received him 
gravely. There was a look in her eyes which told him 
tliat he had not won her approval. 

"Of course I do not intend to trouble you often with 
visits," he said, as he gave his furred overcoat to Li. 



ANNE. 421 

"But one or two may be allowed, I think, from such 
an old frieud." 

"And to such a desolate girl." 

"Desolate no longer," he answered, choosing to ig- 
nore the reproach of the phrase. 

He installed himself in one of the new arm-chairs 
(looking, it must be confessed, much more comfortable 
than before), and began to talk in a fluent general way, 
approaching no topics that were personal. Meanwhile 
old Nora, hearing from Li that the benefactor of the 
household was present, appeared, strong in the new rich- 
ness of her store-room, at the door, and dropping a courte- 
sy, wished to know at what hour it would please him 
to dine. She said "your honor"; she had almost said 
' ' your highness. " Her homage was so sincere that Anne 
smiled, and Dexter laughed outright. 

"You see I am expected to stay, whether you wish it 
or not," he said. "Do let me; it shall be for the last 
time." Then turning to Nora, he said, "At four." And 
with another reverence, the old woman withdrew. 

" It is a viciously disagreeable afternoon. You would 
not, I think, have the heart to turn out even a dog," he 
continued, leaning back at ease, and looking at his host- 
ess, his eyes shining with amusement: he was reading 
her objections, and triumphing over them. Then, as he 
saw her soberness deepen, he grew grave immediately. 
"I am staying to-day because I wish to talk with you, 
Anne," he said. "I shall not come again. I know as 
well as you do, of course, that you can not receive me 
while you have no better chaperon than Nora." He 
paused, looking at her downcast face. ' ' You do not like 
what I have done ?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"You have loaded me with too heavy an obligation." 

"Any other reason ?" 

"I can never repay you." 

"In addition ?" 

"It is not right that you should treat me as though I 
were a cliild." 



422 -^NNE. 

' ' I knew you would object, and strongly ; yet I hope 
to bring" you over yet to my view of the case," said Dex- 
ter. "You say that I have placed you under too heavy 
an obligation. But pray consider what a slight afPair 
the little gift seems to me. The house is very small ; I 
have spent but a few hundreds ; in all, with the exception 
of the shawl and furs, not much over five. What is that 
to an income like mine ? You say you can never repay 
me. You repay me by accepting. It seems to me a noble 
quality to accept, simply and generously accept ; and I 
have believed that yours was a noble nature. Accept, 
then, generously what it is such a pleasure to me to give. 
On my own side, I say this : the woman Gregory Dexter 
once asked to be his wife shall not suffer from want while 
Gregory Dexter lives, and knows where to find her. This 
has nothing to do with you; it is my side of the subject." 

He spoke with much feeling. Anne looked at him. 
Then she rose, and with quiet dignity gave him, as he 
rose also, her hand. He understood the silent little action. 
"You have answered my expectation," he said, and the 
subject was at an end forever. 

After dinner, in the twilight, he spoke again. "You 
said, an hour or two ago, that I had treated you as 
though you were a child. It is true; for you were a 
child at Caryl's, and I remembered you as you were then. 
But you are much changed ; looking at you now, it is im- 
possible that I should ever think of you in the same 
way again." 

She made no reply. 

"Can you tell me nothing of yourself, of your person- 
al life since we parted ? Your engagement, for instance ?" 

"It is ended. Mr. Pronando is married; he married 
my sister. You did not see the notice ?" (Anne's 
thoughts were back in the West Virginia farm-house 
now with the folded slip of newspaper.) 

' ' No ; I was in the far West until April. I did not come 
eastward until the war broke out. Then you are free, 
Anne ? Do not be afraid to tell me ; I remember every 
word you said in Miss Vanhorn's little red parlor, and 
I shall not repeat my mistake. You are, then, free ?" 



ANNE. 423 

"I can not answer you." 

" Then I will not ask ; it all belongs to the one subject, 
I suppose. The only part intrusted to me — the secret of 
your being" here — I will religiously guard. As to your 
present life — you would rather let this Herr Scheffel con- 
tinue looking for a place for you ?" 

"Yes." 

"I will not interfere. But I shall write to you now 
and then, and you must answer. If at the end of a 
month you have not obtained this position you are hoping 
for — in a church choir, is it not ? — you must let me know. 
Will you promise ?" 

" I promise." 

"And bear in mind this : you shall never be left friend- 
less again while I am on earth to protect you." 

" But I have no right to — " 

" Yes, you have; you have been more to me than you 
know." Here he paused, and looked away as if debating 
with himself. ' ' I have always intended that you should 
know it some time," he continued; "perhaps this is as 
good a time as any. Will you listen ?" 

"Yes." 

He settled himself anew in his chair, meditated a mo- 
ment, and then, with all his natural fluency, which no- 
thing could abate, with the self -absorption which men of 
his temperament always show when speaking of them- 
selves, and yet with a certain guarded look at Anne too 
all the while, as if curious to see how she would take his 
words, he began : 

' ' You know what my life has been — that is, general- 
ly. What I wish to tell you now is an inner phase. 
When, at the beginning of middle age, at last I had gain- 
ed the wealth I always intended to have, I decided that I 
would marry. I wished to have a home. Of course, 
during all those toiling years, I had not been without 
what are called love affairs, but I was far too intensely 
absorbed in my own purposes to spend much time upon 
them. Besides. I had preserved an ideal. 

"I do not intend to conceal or deny that I am am- 
bitious ; I made a deliberate effort to gain admittance into 



424 ANNE. 

what is called the best society in the Eastern cities, and 
in a measure I succeeded. I enjoyed the life ; it was an- 
other world ; but still, wherever I went it seemed to me 
that the women were artificial. Beautiful, attractive, 
women I could not help admiring, but — not like my ideal 
of what my wife must be. They would never make for 
me that home I coveted ; for while I stood ready to sur- 
round that home with luxury, in its centre I wanted, for 
myself alone, a true and loving heart, a heart absorbed in 
me. And then, while I knew that I wanted this, while I 
still cherished my old ideal closely, what did I do ? I 
began to love Rachel Bannert! 

"You look at me ; you do not understand why I speak 
in that tone. It is as well that you should not. I can 
only say that I worshipped her. It was not her fault 
that I began to love her, but it was her fault that I was 
borne on so far ; for she made me believe that she loved 
me ; she gave me the privileges of a lover. I never 
doubted (how could I ?) that she would be my wife in 
the end, although, for reasons of her own, she wished to 
keep the engagement, for the time being, a secret. I sub- 
mitted, because I loved her. And then, when I was help- 
less, because I was so sure of her, she turned upon me 
and cast me off. Like a worn-out glove ! 

"Anne, I could not believe it. We were in the ra- 
vine; she had strolled off in that direction, as though by 
chance, and I had followed her. I asked her what she 
meant: no doubt I looked like a dolt. She laughed in 
my face. It seemed that she had only been amusing her- 
self ; that she had never had any intention of marrying me ; 
a ' comedy of the summer. ' But no one laughs in my face 
twice — not even a woman. When, at last, I understood 
her, my infatuation vanished ; and I said some words to 
har that night which I think she will not soon forget. 
Then I turned and left her. 

' ' Remember that this was no boy whose feelings she had 
played with, whose respect she had forfeited ; it was a man, 
and one who had expected to find in this Eastern society a 
perfection of delicacy and refinement not elsewhere seen. 
I scorned myself for haviug loved her, and for the mo 



ANNE. 425 

ment I scorned all women too. Then it was, Anne, that 
the thought of you saved me. I said to myself that if 
you would be my wife, I could be happy with your fresh 
sincerity, and not sink into that unbelieving-, disagreeable 
cynicism which I had always despised in other men . Act- 
ing on the impulse, I asked you. 

" I did not love you, save as all right-minded men love 
and admire a sweet young girl; but I believed in you; 
there was something about you that aroused trust and 
confidence. Besides — I tell you this frankly — I thought 
I should succeed. I certainly did not want to be re- 
pulsed twice in one day. I see now that I was misled 
by Miss Vanhorn. But I did not see it then, and when 
I spoke to you, I fully expected that you would answer 
yes. 

"You answered no, Anne, but you still saved me. I 
still believed in you. And more than ever after that 
last interview. I went away from Caryl's early the next 
morning, and two days later started for the West. I was 
hurt through and through, angry with myself, disgusted 
with life. I wanted to breathe again the freedom of the 
border. Yet through it all your memory was with me as 
that of one true, pure, steadfast woman-heart which com- 
pelled me to believe in goodness and steadfastness as pos- 
sibilities in women, although I myself had been so blind- 
ly befooled. This is what you, although unconsciously, 
have done for me : it is an inestimable service. 

"I was not much moved from my disgust until some- 
thing occurred which swept me out of myself — I mean 
the breaking out of the war. I had not believed in its 
possibility; but when the first gun was fired, I started 
eastward at an hour's notice." Here Dexter rose, and 
with folded arms walked to and fro across the floor. 
"The class of people you met at Caryl's used to smile and 
shrug their shoulders over what is called patriotism — I 
think they are smiling no longer." — (Here Anne remem- 
bered "After that attack on Fort Sumter, it seemed to me 
the only thing to do") " but the tidings of that first gun 
stirred something in my breast which is, I suppose, what 
that word means. As soon as I reached Pennsylvania, 



426 ANNE. 

I went up to the district where my mines are, gathered 
together and equipped all the volunteers who would go. 
I have been doing similar work on a larger scale ever 
since. I should long ago have been at the front in per- 
son were it not that the Governor requires my presence 
at home, and I am well aware also that I am worth twen- 
ty times more in matters of organization than I should be 
simply as one more man in the field." 

This was true. Gregory Dexter's remarkable business 
powers and energy, together with his wealth, force, and 
lavish liberality, made him the strong arm of his State 
throughout the entire war. 

He asked for no comment upon his story ; he had told 
it briefly as a series of facts. But from it he hoped that 
the listener would draw a feeling which would make her 
rest content under his friendly aid. And he succeeded. 

But before he went away she told him that while ac- 
cepting all the house contained, she would rather return 
those of his gifts which had been personal to herself. 

"Why?" 

' ' I would rather do it, but I do not know how to ex- 
plain the feeling," she answered, frankly, although her 
face was one bright blush. 

" If you do not, I. do," said Dexter, smiling, and look- 
ing at her with the beginnings of a new interest in his 
eyes. ' ' As you please, of course, although I did try to 
buy a good shawl for you, Anne. Are you not very 
poorly dressed ?" 

' ' Plainly and inexpensively. Quite warmly, how- 
ever." 

' ' But what am I to do with the things ? I will tell 
you what I shall do : I shall keep them just as they are, 
in the cedar box. Perhaps some day you will accept 
them." 

She shook her head. But he only smiled back in 
p.nswer, and soon afterward he went away. 

The next day she sent the cedar case to his city ad- 
dress. She wrote a note to accompany it, and then de- 
stroyed it. Why should she write ? All had been said. 

Before the month was quite ended, Herr Scheffel sue- 



ANNE. 427 

ceeded in obtaining for her a place in another church 
choir. It was a small church, and the salary was not 
large, but she was glad to accept it, and more than glad to 
be able to write to Mr. Dexter that she had accepted it. 
New pupils came with the new year ; she was again able 
to send money to Miss Lois, for the household supi)lies, 
so lavishly provided, were sufficient for the little family 
throughout the winter. 

In February, being again in New York, Dexter came 
out to see her. It was a wild evening ; the wind whistled 
round the house, and blew the hail and sleet against the 
panes. Most persons would have remained in the city ; 
but after one look at Dexter's face and figure, no one ever 
spoke to him about the weather. Anne had received a 
long letter from Jeanne- Armande ; she showed it to him. 
Also one from Pere Michaux. "I feel now," she said, 
"almost as though you were my — " 

" Please do not say father." 

"Oh no." 

" Brother, then ?" 

"Hardly that." 

"Uncle ?" 

"Perhaps; I never had an uncle. But, after all, it is 
more like — " Here she stopped again. 

" Guardian ?" suggested Dexter; "they are always re- 
markable persons, at least in books. Never mind the 
name, Anne; I am content to be simply your friend." 

During the evening he made one allusion to the forbid- 
den subject. "You asked me to tell you nothing re- 
garding the people who were at Caryl's, but perhaps the 
prohibition was not eternal. I spent an hour with Mrs. 
Heathcote this afternoon (never fear; I kept your secret). 
Would you not like to hear something of her ?" 

Anne's face changed, but she did not swerve. ' ' No •, 
tell me nothing, " she answered. And he obeyed her wish . 
In a short time he took leave, and returned to the city. 
During the remainder of the winter she did not see hinj 
again. 



428 ANNE. 



Chapter XXIX. 

"The fierce old fires of primitive ages are not dead yet, although we 
pretend they are. Every now and then each man of us is confronted 
by a gleam of the old wild light deep down in his own startled heart." 

In the middle of wild, snowy March there came a 
strange week of beautiful days. On the Sunday of this 
week Anne was in her place in the choir, as usual, some 
time before the service began. 

It was a compromise choir. The dispute between the 
ideas of the rector and those of the congregation had been 
ended by bringing the organ forward to the corner near 
the chancel, and placing in front of it the singers' seats, 
ornamented with the proper devices : so much was done 
for the rector. To balance this, and in deference to the 
congregation, the old quartette of voices was retained, and 
placed in these seats, which, plainly intended for ten or 
twelve surpliced choristers, were all too long and broad 
for the four persons who alone occupied them. The 
singers sat in one, and kept their music-books in the 
other, and objecting to the open publicity of tVieir position 
facing the congregation, they had demanded, and at last 
succeeded in obtaining (to the despair of the rector), red 
curtains, which, hanging from the high railing above, 
modestly concealed them when they were seated, and 
converted that corner of the church into something be- 
tween a booth in a fair and a circus tent. 

Before the service began, while the people were coming 
in, the contralto pushed aside a corner of the curtain as 
usual, and peeped out. She then reported to Anne in a 
whisper the course of events, as follows, Anne not caring 
to hear, but quiescent : 

"Loads of people to-day. Wonder why? Oh yes, I 
remember now; the apostolic bishop's going to be here, 
and preach about the Indians. Don't you love that man ? 
I do ; and I wish I was an Indian myself. We'll have 



ANNE. 429 

all the curtains j)ut back for the sermon. More people 
coming. I declare it's quite exciting. And I forgot gum- 
drops on this day of all others, and shall probably be 
hoarse as a crow, and spoil the duet ! I hope you won't 
be raging. Oh, do look ! Here's such a swell ! A lady; 
Paris clothes from head to foot. And she's going to sit 
up here near us too. Take a look ?'' But Anne declined, 
and the reporter went on. "She has the lightest hair 
I ever saw. 1 wonder if it's bleached ? And she's as 
slender as a paper-cutter." (The contralto w^as stout.) 
' ' But I can't deny that she's handsome, and her clothes 
are stunning. They're right close to us now, and the 
man's awfully handsome too, come to look at him — her 
husband, I suppose. A pair of brown eyes and such 
heavy eyebrows ! They — " 

But the soprano was curious at last, ajDparently, and 
the contralto good-naturedly gave up her look-out corner. 
Yes, there they were, Helen and Ward Heathcote, Mrs, 
Heathcote and her husband, Captain Heathcote and his 
wife. Very near her, and unconscious of her presence. 
Hungrily, and for one long moment, she could not help 
looking at them. As the light-tongued girl had said, 
Helen looked very beautiful, more beautiful than ever, 
Anne thought. She was clad in black velvet from head 
to foot, and as the day was unexpectedly warm, she had 
thrown aside her heav^y mantle edged with fur, and her 
slender form w^as visible, outlined in the clinging fabric. 
Under the small black velvet bonnet with its single plume 
her hair, in all its fine abundance, shone resplendent, 
contrasting with the velvet's richness. One little deli- 
cately gloved hand held a prayer-book, and with the oth- 
er, as Anne looked, she motioned to her husband. He 
drew nearer, and she spoke. In answer he sought in his 
pockets, and drew forth a fan. She extended her hand 
as if to take it, but he opened it himself, and began to fan 
her quietly. The heat in the church was oppressive; 
his wife was delicate; what more natural than that he 
should do this ? Yet the gazer felt herself acutely mis- 
erable. She knew Helen so well also that although to 
the rest of the congregation the fair face preserved un- 



430 ANNE. 

changed its proud immobility, Anne's eyes could read 
at once the wife's happiness in her husband's attention. 

She drew back. "I can not sing to-day," she said, 
hurriedly; "I am not well. Will you please make my 
excuses to the others?" As she spoke she drew on her 
gloves. (She had a fancy that she could not sing with 
her hands gloved.) 

"Why, what in the world — " began the contralto. 
' ' But you do look frightfully pale. Are you going to 
faint ? Let me go with you." 

' ' I shall not faint, but I must get to the open air as soon 
as possible. Please stay and tell the others ; perhaps Miss 
Freeborn will sing in my place." 

Having succeeded in saying this, her white cheeks and 
trembling hands witnesses for her, she went out through 
the little choir door, which was concealed by the curtain, 
and in another moment was in the street. The organist, 
hidden in his oaken cell, looked after her in surprise. 
When the basso came in, with a flower in his mouth, he 
took the flower out, and grew severely thoughtful over the 
exigencies of the situation. After a few minutes of hur- 
ried discussion, the basso, who was also the leader, came 
forth from the circus tent and made a majestic progress 
to the rector's pew, where sat the lily-like Miss Freeborn, 
the rector's daughter; and then, after another consulta- 
tion, she rose, and the two made a second majestic pro- 
gress back to the circus tent, the congregation mean- 
while looking on with much interest. When the tenor 
came, a rather dissipated youth who had been up late the 
night before, he was appalled by the presence of the lily- 
like Miss Freeborn, and did not sing as well as usual, 
Miss Freeborn, although lily-like, keeping him sternly to 
his notes, and not allowing him any of those lingering lit- 
tle descents after the other singers have finished, upon 
which he, like many tenors, relied for his principal eflPects. 

Meanwhile Anne was Avalking rapidly down the street; 
a mile soon lay between her and the church, yet still she 
hastened onward. She was in a fever, yet a chill as well. 
Now she was warm with joy, now cold with grief. She 
had seen him. Her eyes had rested upon his face at last 



ANNE. 431 

and he was safe, he was well and strong again. Was 
not this joy enough ? 

And yet he was with Helen. And Helen loved him. 

She had asked him to go back to Helen. He had gone 
back. She had asked him to do his part in life bravely. 
And he Avas doing it. Was not this what she wished ? 

And yet — was it so hard to go back — to go back to beau- 
tiful Helen who loved him so deeply ? Did his ]_3art in 
life require bravery ? Did he look as though it was a 
sacrifice, a hardship ? And here she tried to recall how in 
truth he had looked — how, to the eyes of a stranger. He 
was strong again and vigorous; but beyond that she 
could think only of how he looked to her — the face she 
knew so well, the profile, the short crisp hair, the heavy 
eyebrows and brown eyes. He was in citizen's dress; 
only the bronzed skin and erect bearing betrayed the sol- 
dier. How he would have looked to a stranger she could 
not tell ; she only knew, she only felt, how he looked to 
her. "He is at home on furlough," she thought, with 
gladness, realizing the great joy it was that he should be 
safe when so many had been taken. And then, in her 
memory, blotting out all gladness, rose again the picture 
of the two figures, side by side, and she hurried onward, 
she knew not whither. It was jealousy, plain, simple, 
unconquerable jealousy, which was consuming her; jea- 
lousy, terrible passion which the most refined and intel- 
lectual share with the poor Hottentots, from which the 
Christian can not escape any more than the pagan ; jea- 
lousy, horrible companion of love, its guardian and tor- 
mentor. God help the jealous ! for they suffer the acutest 
tortures the human mind can feel. And Anne was jea- 
lous. 

If she had not admired Helen so deeply, and loved her 
(save for this one barrier) so sincerely, she would not 
have suffered as she was suffering. But to her Helen 
had always been the fairest woman on earth, and even 
now this feeling could not be changed. All Helen's 
words came back to her, every syllable of her clear, quiet- 
ly but intensely uttered avowal ; and this man, whom she 
had loved so deeply, was now her husband. 



432 ANNF. 

It was nothing new. Why should she feel it, think of 
it, in this w^ay ? But she was no longer capable of think- 
ing or feeling reasonably. Of course he loved her. In 
his mind she, Anne, was probably but a far-off remem- 
brance, even if a remembrance at all. Their meeting in 
West Virginia had been a chance encounter ; its impulses, 
therefore, had been chance impulses, its words chance 
words, meaning nothing, already forgotten. She, Anne, 
had taken them as great, and serious, and sincere; and 
she, Anne, had been a fool. Her life had been built upon 
this idea. It was a foundation of sand. 

She walked on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. 
Where were nov/ the resignation and self-sacrifice, the 
crowned patience and noble fortitude ? Ah, yes, but re- 
signation and fortitude were one thing when she had 
thought that he required them also, another when they 
were replaced in his life by happiness and content. It is 
easy to be self-sacrificing when the one we love suffers in 
companionship with us, and there is no rival. But when 
there is a rival, self-sacrifice goes to the winds. "He 
never loved me," was the burning cry of her heart. " 1 
have been a fool — a poor self-absorbed, blinded fool. If 
he thinks of me at all, it is with a smile over my simple 
credulity." 

Through miles of streets she w^andered, and at last 
found herself again in the quarter where the church stood. 
A sudden desire seized her to look at him, at them, again. 
If the service had been long, she would be in time to see 
their carriage pass. She turned, and hastened toward 
the church, as anxious now to reach it as she had been be- 
fore to leave it far behind. Now she could see the corner 
and the porch. No, service was not ended ; carriages 
were waiting without. She was in time. But as she 
drew near, figures began to appear, coming from the 
porch, and she took refuge under the steps of a house 
opposite, her figure hidden in the shadow. 

The congregation slowly made its dignified w^ay into 
the street. St. Lucien's had seldom held so large a 
throng of w^orshippers. The little sexton hardly knew, 
in his excitement, where he was, or what his duty, on such 




"ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE, 



ANNE. 433 

a momentous occasion. At length they appeared, the 
last of all ; only one carriage was left, and that was their 
own. Slowly, leaning on her husband's arm, the slen- 
der fair-haired woman came forth ; and Anne, still as a 
statue, watched with fixed, burning eyes while he threw 
the velvet cloak round her as they reached the open air, 
and fastened the clasp. Chance favored the gazer. Hel- 
en had left her prayer-book behind in the pew, and while 
the sexton went back to look for it, husband and wife stood 
waiting on the steps in the sunshine. Yes, Heathcote had 
regained all his old vigor, but his expression was changed. 
He was gi^ver; in repose his face was stern. 

It seemed as if Helen felt the fixed although unseen 
gaze, for she shivered slightly, said something, and they 
began to go down the steps, the wife supported by her 
husband's arm as though she needed the assistance. The 
footman held open the carriage door, but Helen paused. 
Anne could see her slender foot, in its little winter boot, 
put out, and then withdrawn, as though she felt herself 
unable to take the step. Then her husband lifted her in 
his arms and placed her in the carriage himself, took his 
place beside her, and the man closed the door. In an- 
other minute the sexton had brought the prayer-book, 
and the carriage rolled away. Anne came out from her 
hiding-place. The vision was gone. 

Again she walked at random through the streets, un- 
heeding where she was. She knew that she had broken 
her compact with herself — broken it utterly. Of what 
avail now the long months during which she had not al- 
lowed herself to enter the street or the neighborhood 
where Helen lived ? Of what avail that she had not al- 
lowed hei'self to listen to one word concerning them when 
Mr. Dexter stood ready to tell all ? She had looked at 
them — looked at them voluntarily and long ; had gone 
back to the church door to look at them, to look again 
at the face for a sight of which her whole heart hungered. 

She had broken her vow. In addition, the mist over 
her blind eyes was dissolved. He had never loved her; 
it had been but a passing fancy. It was best so. Yet, oh, 
how easy all the past now seemed, in spite of its loneliness, 

28 



434 ANNE. 

toil, and care ! For then she had believed that she was 
loved. She began to realize that until this moment she 
had never really given up her own will at all, but had 
held on through all to this inward belief, which had made 
her lonely life warm with its hidden secret light. She 
had thought herself noble, and she had been but selfish; 
she had thought herself self-controlled, and she had been 
following her own will ; she had thought herself humble, 
and here she was, maddened by humiliated jealous pride. 
At last, worn out with weariness, she went homeward 
to the half -house as twilight fell. In the morning the 
ground was white with snow again, and the tumultuous 
winds of March were careering through the sky, whip- 
X)ing the sleet and hail before them as they flew along; 
the strange halcyon sunshine was gone, and a second win- 
ter upon them. And Anne felt that a winter such as she 
had never known before was in her heart also. 



Chapter XXX. 

" eloquent and mightie Death ! thou hast drawn together all the 
farre-stretched greatnesse, all the pride, crueltic, and ambition of men, 
and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Ilic jacet !" — 
Sir Walter Raleigh. 

A MONTH passed. Anne saw nothing more, heard no- 
thing more, but toiled on in her daily round. She 
taught and sang. She answered Miss Lois's letters and 
those of Pere Michaux. There was no longer any dan- 
ger in writing to Weston, and she smiled sadly as she 
thought of the blind, self-important days when she had 
believed otherwise. She now wrote to her friends there, 
and letters came in return. Mrs. Barstow's pages were 
filled with accounts of hospital work, for Donelson had 
been followed by the great blood-shedding of Shiloh, and 
the West was dotted with battle-fields. 

She had allowed herself no newspapers, lest she should 
come upon his name. But now she ordered one, and 
read it daily. What was it to her even if she should 
come upon his name ? She must learn to bear it, so long 



ANNE. 435 

as they trod the same earth. And one day she did come 
upon it; but it was merely the two-line announcement 
that he had returned to the front. 

The great city had grown used to the war. There were 
few signs in its busy streets that a pall hung over the 
borders of the South. The music teacher on her rounds 
saw nothing save now and then the ranks of a regiment 
passing through on its way to a train. Traffic went on 
unchanged; pleasure was rampant as ever. The shrill 
voice of the newsboy calling the details of the last battle 
was often the only reminder of the dread reality. May 
moved onward. The Scheffels began to make those little 
excursions into the country so dear to the German heart; 
but they could not persuade the honored Fraulein to ac- 
company them. For it was not the real country to which 
they went, but only that suburban imitation of it which 
thrives in the neighborhood of New York, and Anne's 
heart Avas back on her island in the cool blue Northern 
straits. Miss Lois was now at home again, and her letters 
were like a breath of life to the homesick girl. Little 
Andre was better, and Pere Michaux came often to the 
church-house, and seemed glad to be with them again. 
With them again ! If she could but be with them too 1 
— stand on the heights among the beckoning larches, walk 
through the spicy aisles of the arbor vitas, sit under the 
grsij old pines, listening to the wash of the cool blue wa- 
ter below, at rest, afar, afar from all this weariness and 
sadness and pain ! 

During these days Stonewall Jackson w^as making one 
of his brilliant campaigns in the Valley, the Valley of 
Virginia, the beautiful valley of the Shenandoah. On 
the last morning in May, while reading the war news, 
Anne found in one corner a little list of dead. And 
there, in small letters, which grew to great size, and in- 
scribed themselves on the walls of the room, one succeed- 
ing the other like a horrible dream, was the name. Ward 

Heathcote. "Captain Ward Heathcote, New York 

Volunteers." She turned the sheet; it was repeated in 
the latest news column, and again in a notice on the 
local page. ' ' Captain Ward Heathcote, New York 



436 



ANNl 



Volunteers, is reported among the slain," followed by 
those brief items of birth, age, and general history which 
appall our eyes when we first behold them on the printed 
page, and realize that they are now public property, since 
they belong only to the dead. 

It was early. She was at home in the half-house. 
She rose, put on her bonnet and gloves, walked to the 
station, took the first train to the city, and went to Helen. 

She reached the house, and was denied entrance. Mrs. 
Heathcote could see no one. 

Was any one with her ? Miss Teller ? 
I Miss Teller, the man answered, was absent from the 
city ; but a telegraphic dispatch had been sent, and she 
was on her way home. There was no relative at present 
with Mrs. Heathcote; friends she was not able to see. 
And he looked with some curiosity at this plainly dress- 
ed young person, who stood there quite unconscious, ap- 
parently, of the atmosphere of his manner. ' And yet 
Mr. Simpson had a very well regulated manner, founded 
upon the best models — a manner which had never here- 
tofore failed in its effect. With a preliminary cough, 
he began to close the door. 

" Wait," said this young person, almost as though she 
had some authority. She drew forth a little note-book, 
tore out a leaf, wrote a line upon it, and handed him 
the improvised card. "Please take this to Mrs. Heath- 
cote," she said. "I think she will see me." 

See her — see her — when already members of the high- 
est circles of the city had been refused ! With a slight 
smile of superior scorn, Simpson took the little slip, and 
leaving the stranger on the steps, went within, partially 
closing the door behind him. But in a few minutes he 
hastily returned, and with him was a sedate middle-aged 
woman, whom he called Mrs. Bagshot, and who, although 
quiet in manner, seemed decidedly to outrank him. 

"Will you come with me, if you please?" she said def- 
erentially, addressing Anne. "Mrs. Heathcote would 
[like to see you without delay." She led the way with a 
quiet unhurrying step up a broad stairway, and opened 
a door. In the darkened room, on a couch, a white form 



ANNE. 437 

was lying. Bagshot withdrew, and Anne, crossing the 
floor, sank down on her knees beside the couch. 

"Helen!" she said, in a broken voice; "oh, Helen! 
Helen!" 

The white figure did not stir, save slowly to disengage 
one hand and hold it out. But Anne, leaning forward, 
tenderly lifted the slight form in her arms, and held it 
close to her breast. 

"I could not help coming," she said. "Poor Helen! 
poor, poor Helen!" 

She smoothed the fair hair away from the small face 
that lay still and white upon her shoulder, and at that 
moment she pitied the stricken wife so intensely that she 
forgot the rival, or rather made herself one with her; for 
in death there is no rivalry, only a common grief. Helen 
did not speak, but she moved closer to Anne, and Anne, 
holding her in her arms, bent over her, soothing her with 
loving words, as though she had been a little child. 

The stranger remained with Mrs. Heathcote nearly two 
hours. Then she went away, and Simpson, opening the 
door for her, noticed that her veil was closely drawn, so 
that her face was concealed. She went up the street 
to the end of the block, turned the corner, and disappeared. 
He was still standing on the steps, taking a breath of 
fresh air, his portly person and solemn face expressing, 
according to his idea, a dignified grief appropriate to 
the occasion and the distinction of the family he served — 
a family whose bereavements even were above the level 
of ordinary sorrows, when his attention was attracted by 
the appearance of a boy in uniform, bearing in his hand 
an orange-brown envelope. In the possibilities of that 
well-known hue of hope and dread he forgot for the mo- 
ment even his occupation of arranging in his own mind 
elegant formulas with which to answer the inquiries con- 
stantly made at the door of the bereaved mansion. The 
boy ascended the steps ; Bagshot, up stairs, with her hand 
on the knob of Mrs. Heathcote's door, saw him, and 
came down. The dispatch was for her mistress ; she car- 
ried it to her. The next instant a cry rang through the 
house. Captain Heathcote was safe. 



438 ANNE. 

The message was as follows : 

* * To Mrs. JVard Heathcote : 

' ' My name given in list a mistake. Am here, wounded, 
but not dangerously. Will write. W. H." 

It was sent from Harper's Ferry. And two hours later, 
Mrs. Heathcote, accompanied by Bagshot, was on hei: 
way to Harper's Ferry. 

It was a wild journey. If any man had possessed 
authority over Helen, she would never have been allowed 
to make it ; but no man did possess authority. Mrs. 
Heathcote, having money, courage, and a will of steel, 
asked advice from no one, did not even wait for Miss 
Teller, but departed according to a swift purpose of her 
own, accompanied only by Bagshot, who was, however, 
an efficient person, self-possessed, calm, and accustomed 
to travelling. It was uncertain whether they would be 
able to reach Harper's Ferry, but this uncertainty did 
not deter Helen: she would go as far as she could. In 
her heart she was not without hope tliat Mrs. Heathcote 
could relax the rules and military lines of even the strict- 
est general in the service. As to personal fear, she had 
none. 

At Baltimore she was obliged to wait for an answer 
to the dispatch she had sent on starting, and the answer 
was long in coming. To pass away the time, she order- 
ed a carriage and drove about the city ; many persons no- 
ticed her, and remembered her fair, delicate, and impa- 
tient face, framed in its pale hair. At last the answer 
came. Captain Heathcote was no longer at Harper's 
Ferry; he had been sent a short distance northward to a 
town where there was a better liospital, and Mrs. Heath- 
cote was advised to go round by the way of Harrisburg, 
a route easier and safer, if not in the end more direct as 
well. 

She followed this advice, although against her will. 
She travelled northward to Harrisburg, and then made a 
broad curve, and came southward again, within sight of 
the green hills later to be brought into unexpected and 



ANNE. 439 

long-enduring fame — the hills around Gettysburg. But 
now the whole region was fair with summer, smiling and 
peaceful; the farmers were at work, and the grain was 
growing. After some delays she reached the little town, 
with its barrack-like, white-washed hospital, where her 
husband was installed under treatment for a wound in 
his right arm, which, at first appearing serious, had now 
begun to improve so rapidly that the surgeon in charge 
decided that he could soon travel northward, and receive 
what further care he needed among the comforts of his 
own home. 

At the end of five days, therefore, they started, attend- 
ed only by Bagshot, that useful woman possessing, in 
addition to her other qualifications, both skill and ex- 
perience as a nurse. 

They started; but the journey was soon ended. On 
the lltli of June the world of New York was startled, 
its upper circles hotly excited, and one obscure young 
teacher in a little suburban home paralyzed, by the great 
headings in the morning newspapers. Mrs. Heathcote, 
wife of Captain Ward Heathcote, New York Volun- 
teers, while on her way homeward with her husband, 
who was wounded in the Shenandoah Valley, had been 
found murdered in her room in the country inn at Tim- 
loesville, where they were passing the night. And the 
evidence pointed so strongly toward Captain Heathcote 
that he had been arrested upon suspicion. 

The city journals appended to this brief dispatch what- 
ever details they knew regarding the personal history 
of the suspected man and his victim. Helen's beauty, the 
high position of both in society, and their large circle of 
friends were spoken of; and in one account the wife's 
wealth, left by will unconditionally to her husband, was 
significantly mentioned. One of the larger journals, 
with the terrible and pitiless impartiality of the great 
city dailies, added that if there had been a plan, some 
part of it had signally failed. " A. man of the ability of 
Captain Heatlicote would never have been caught other- 
wise in a web of circumstantial evidence so close that 
it convinced even the pastoral minds of the Timloesville 



UO ANNE. 

officials. We do not wish, of course, to prejudg-e this 
case ; but from the half-accounts which have reached us^ 
it looks as though this blunder, whatever it may have 
been, was but another proof of the eternal verity of the 
old saying, Murder will out." 

It was the journal containing this sentence which Anne 
read. She had heard the news of Heathcote's safety a 
few hours after her visit to Helen. Only a few days had 
passed, and now her eyes were staring at the horrible 
woi^ds that Helen was dead, and that her murderer was 
her own husband. 



Chapter XXXI. 



"All her bright hair streaming down, 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, 
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled." 

— Tennyson. 

EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK "MARS." 

" The following details in relation to the terrible crime 
with whose main facts our readers are familiar will be 
of interest at the moment. They were collected by our 
special reporter, sent in person to the scene of the tragedy, 
for the purpose of gathering- reliable information concern- 
ing" this case, which promises to be one of the causes cele- 
bres of the country, not only on account of the hig"h po- 
sition and wealth of the parties concerned, but also on ac- 
count of the close net of i^urely circumstantial evidence 
which surrounds the accused man. 

" TIMLOESVILLE 

is a small village on the border-line between Pennsyl- 
vania and Maryland. Legally in Pennsylvania, it pos- 
sesses personally the characteristics of a Maryland village, 
some of its outlying fields being fairly over the border. 
It is credited with about two thousand inhabitants; but 



ANNE. 441 

the present observer did not see, during" his stay, more 
than about one thousand, including women and children, 
Timloesville is on a branch railway, which connects 
with the main line at a junction about thirty miles dis- 
tant. It possesses two churches and a saw-mill, and was 
named from a hig-hly esteemed early settler (who may 
perhaps have marched with our great Washington), 
Judge Jeremiah Timloe. The agricultural products of 
the surrounding country are principally hay and maize 
— wrongly called corn. The intelligence and morality 
of the community are generally undei^tood to be of a high 
order. A low fever prevails here in the spring. 

"timloe hotel. 

"At the southern edge of the town, on the line of the 
railway, stands the Timloe Hotel, presenting an imposing 
facade to the passengers on the trains as they roll by. It 
is presided over in a highly liberal and gentlemanly man- 
ner by Mr. Casper Graub; it is, in fact, to the genial 
courtesy of ' mine host' that much of this information is 
due, and we take this occasion also to state that during 
all the confusion and excitement necessarily accruing to 
his house during the present week, the high standard of 
Mr. Graub's table has never once been relaxed. 

"MR. graub's story. 

"An army officer, with his right arm in a sling, arrived 
at the Timloe Hotel, accompanied by his wife, and a maid 
or nurse named Bagshot, on the evening of June 10, at 
six O'clock precisely. The officer registered the names 
as follows : ' Ward Heathcote, Mrs, Heathcote and maid» 
New York.' He wrote the names with his left hand. A 
room w^as assigned to them in the front part of the house, 
but upon the lady's objecting to the proximity of the 
trains (generally considered, however, by the majority of 
Mr. Graub's guests, an enjoyable variety), another apart- 
ment in a wing was given to them, with windows open- 
ing upon the garden. The wing is shaped like an L. 
The maid, Bagshot, had a room in the bend of the L, she 
too having objected, although later, to the room first as 



442 ANNE. 

signed to her. At half past six o'clock they had supper; 
the lady then retired to her room, but the husband went 
out, as he said, to stroll about the town. At half past 
eight he returned. At nine, Bagshot, having been dis- 
missed for the night, went to her own room ; when she 
left, Captain Heathcote was reading a newspaper, and his 
wife was writing. It has since been ascertained that this 
newspaper was the Baltimore Chrorios of the 9th inst. 
At ten o'clock exactly Captain Heathcote came down 
stairs a second time, jDassed through the office, and stopped 
to light a cigar. Mr. Graub noticed that he was able to 
use his left hand quite cleverly, and asked him whether 
he was naturally left-handed ; Captain Heathcote answer- 
ed that he was not, but had learned the use only since 
his right arm had been disabled. Mr. Graub, seeing him 
go toward the door, thought that it was somewhat singu- 
lar that he should wish to take a second walk, and casu- 
ally remarked upon the warmth of the evening. Cap- 
tain Heathcote replied that it was for that very reason he 
was going out ; he could not breathe in the house ; and 
he added something not very complimentary to the air 
(generally considered unusually salubrious) of Timloes- 
ville. Mr. Graub noticed that he walked up and down 
on the piazza once or twice, as if he wished to shoic him- 
self plainly to the persons who were sitting there. He 
then strolled away, going toward the main street. 

' ' THE OUTSIDE STAIRWAY. 

"As before mentioned, the second room given to Mrs, 
Heathcote was in a wing. This wing is not much used; 
in fact, at the time, save this party of three, it had no 
occupants. It is in the old part of the house. A piazza 
or gallery runs across a portion of the second story, to 
which access is had from the garden by a flight of wood- 
en steps, or rather an outside stairway. This stairway is 
old and sagged ; in places the railing is gone. It is pro- 
bable that Mrs. Heathcote did not even see it. But Cap- 
tain Heathcote might have noticed it, and probably did 
notice it, from the next street, through which he passed 
when he took his first walk before dark. 



ANNE. 443 

" MRS. bagshot's testimony. 

" As we have seen, Captain Heathcote left the hotel os- 
tentatiously by the front entrance at ten o'clock. At 
eleven, Mrs. Bagshot, who happened to be looking from 
her window in the bend of the L, distinctly saw him (her 
candle being out) stealing up hij the outside stairivay 
in the only minute of moonlight there was during the 
entire evening, the clouds having suddenly and strangely 
parted, as if for that very purpose. She saw him enter 
his wife's room through one of the long windows which 
opened to the floor. In about a quarter of an hour she 
saw him come forth again, close the blind behind him, 
and begin to descend the stairway. As there was no 
longer any moonlight, she could only distinguish him by 
the light that shone from the room; but in that short 
space of time, while he was closing the blind, she re- 
cognized him beyond the possibility of a doubt. 

"the night porter's tale. 

"A little before midnight, all the hotel entrances being 
closed save the main door, Captain Heathcote returned. 
As he passed through the office, the night porter noticed 
that he looked pale, and that his clothes were disordered : 
his shirt cuffs especially were wet and creased, as though 
they had been dipped in uxiter. He went up stairs to his 
room, but soon came down again. He had knocked, but 
could not awaken his wife. Would the porter be able 
to open the door by turning back the key ? His wife was 
an invalid ; he feared she had fainted. 

"the tragedy. 

"The night porter— a most respectable person of Irish 
extraction, named Dennis Haggerty — came up and open- 
ed the door. The lamp was burning within; the blinds 
of the window were closed. On the bed, stabbed to the 
heart, apparently while she lay asleep, was the body of 
the wife. 



444 ANNE. 



"Red marks were found on the shutter, which are pro- 
nounced by experts to be the partial print of a left hand. 
On the white cloth which covered the bureau is a slight 
impression of finger-tips, also belonging to a left hand. 
Tliese marks are too imperfect to be relied upon in them- 
selves, save that they establish the fact that the hand 
which touched the cloth and closed the shutter was a left 
hand. 

"an improbable story. 

"Captain Heathcote asserts that he left the hotel at ten, 
as testified, to smoke a cigar and get a breath of fresh air. 
That he returned through the garden at eleven, and see- 
ing by the bright light that his wife was still awake, 
he went up by the outside stairway, which he had pre- 
viously noted, entered the room through the long win- 
dow to tell her that he was going to take a bath in the 
river, and to get towels. He remained a few minutes, put 
two towels in his pocket, and came out, going down the 
same stairway, across the garden, and along the main road 
to the river. (A track, however, has been found to the 
river through the large meadow behind the house.) At 
the bend where road and river meet, he undressed himself 
and took a bath. The disorder in his clothing and his 
wet cuffs came from his own awkwardness, as he has 
but partial use of his right arm. He then returned by the 
road as he had come, but he forgot the towels. Probably 
they would be found on the bank where he left them. 

"the towel. 
"No towels were found at the point named. But at 
the end of the track through the grass meadow, among 
the reeds on the shore, a towel was found, and identified 
as one belonging to the hotel. This towel is stained ivith 
blood. 

"the theory. 

"The theory at Timloesville is that Heathcote had 
no idea that he would be seen when he stole up that out- 
side stairway. He knew that the entire wing was unoe- 



ANNE. 445 

cupied : a servant lias testified that she told him it was ; 
and he thought, too, that the maid Bagshot had a room in 
front, not commanding the garden. Bagshot says that 
the room was changed without his knowledge, while lie 
was absent on his first walk. He supposed, then, that he 
would not be seen. He evidently took Mrs. Heathcote's 
diamond rings, purse, and watch (they are all missing) in 
order to turn public opinion toward the idea that the 
murder was for the sake of robbery. He says that a man 
passed him while he was bathing, and spoke to him; 
proof of this would establish something toward the truth 
of his story. But, strangely enough, this man can not be 
found. Yet Timloesville and its neighborhood are by 
no means so crowded with inhabitants that the search 
should be a difficult one. 

"It may be regarded as a direct misfortune in the cause 
of justice that the accused heard any of Bagshot's testi- 
mony against him before he was called upon to give his 
own account of the events of the evening. And yet his 
confused, contradictory story is another proof of the in- 
capacity which the most cunning murderers often display 
when overtaken by suspicion ; they seem to lose all pow- 
er to protect themselves. If Captain Heathcote had de- 
nied Bagshot's testimony in toto, had denied having as- 
cended the outside stairway at all, his chances would 
have been much brighter, for people might have believed 
that the maid was mistaken. But he acknowledges the 
stairivay, and then denies the rest. 

"his motive. 

"But how can poor finite man detect so obscure a thing 
as motive ? He must hide his face and acknowledge his 
feebleness when he stands before this inscrutable, heavy- 
browed, silent Fate. In this case, two solutions are offer- 
ed. One, that the wife's large fortune was left by will 
unconditionally to her husband; the other, that Mrs. 
Bagshot will testify that there was jealousy and ill feel- 
ing between these two, linked together by God's holy ordi- 
nance, and that this ill feeling was connected with a 
third person, and that person — a woman." 



446 ANNE. 

EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK "ZEUS.'' 

- "Mrs. Heathcote was apparently murdered while 
asleep. When found, her face wore a natural and sweet 
expression, as though she had passed from slumber into 
death without even a sigh. The maid testifies that her 
mistress always removed her rings at night; it is pro- 
bable, therefore, that they, together with her purse and 
watch, were on the bureau where the marks of the finger- 
tips were found. 

"We refrain at present from comment upon the close 
circumstantial evidence which surrounds this case; the 
strong hand of the law will take hold of it at the proper 
time, and sift it thoroughly. Meanwhile the attitude of all 
right-minded persons should be calm and impartial, and 
the accused man should be held innocent until he is 
proven guilty. Trial by newspaper is one of the notable 
evils of our modern American system, and should be 
systematically discountenanced and discouraged ; when a 
human life is trembling in the balance, the sensation- 
monger should be silenced, and his evil wares sternly re- 
jected." 

This negative impartiality was the nearest approach to 
friendliness which the accused man received from the 
combined newspajier columns of New York, Baltimore, 
and Washington. 

The body of poor Helen was brought home, and Miss 
Teller herself arrayed her darling for her long repose. 
Friends thronged to see her as she lay in her luxurious 
drawing-room ; flowers were placed everywhere as though 
for a bridal — the bridal of death. Her figure was visible 
from head to foot; she seemed asleep. Her still face 
wore a gentle expression of rest and jDeace; her small 
hands were crossed upon her breast; her unbound hair 
fell in waves behind her shoulders, a few strands lying on 
the white skirt far below the slender waist, almost to the 
feet. The long lashes lay upon the oval cheek ; no one 
would ever see those bright brown eyes again, and find 
fault with them because they were too narrow. The lithe 



ANNE. 447 

form was motionless; no one would ever again watch it 
move onward with its peculiar swaying grace, and find 
fault wHth it because it was too slender. Those who had 
not been willing to grant her beauty in life, gazed at her 
now with tear-dimmed eyes, and willingly gave all the 
meed of praise they had withheld before. Those who had 
not loved her while she lived, forgot all, and burst into 
tears when they saw her now, the delicately featured 
face once so proud and imperious, quiet forever, grown 
strangely youthful too, like the face of a young girl. 

Miss Teller sat beside her darling ; to all she made the 
same set speech : "Dear Ward, her husband, the one who 
loved her best, can not be here. I am staying with her, 
therefore, until she is taken from us ; then I shall go to 
him, as she would have wished." For Miss Teller be- 
lieved no word of the stories with which the newspapers 
teemed. Indignation and strong affection supplied the 
place of whatever strength had been lacking in her char- 
acter, and never before in her life had she appeared as re- 
solute and clear-minded as now. 

During the funeral services, Isabel Varce sat beside Miss 
Teller, sobbing as if her heart would break. Eachel Ban- 
nert was next to Isabel. She had looked once at Helen, 
only once, and her dark face had quivered spasmodical- 
ly ; then she also took her seat beside the fair, still form, 
and bowed her head. All Helen's companions were clad 
in mourning garb; the tragedy of this death had invested 
it with a deeper sadness than belonged to the passing 
away in the ordinary course of nature of even closer 
friends. The old-fashioned mansion was full to over- 
flowing; in the halls and doorway, on the front steps, 
and even on the pavement outside, men were standing, 
bare-headed and silent, many distinguished faces being 
among them ; society men also, who in general avoided 
funerals as unpleasant and grewsome ceremonials. 
These had been Helen's companions and friends; they 
had all liked and admired her, and as she was borne past 
them, covered with heliotrope, there w^as not one whose 
eyes did not grow stern in thinking of the dastard hand 
that did the cruel deed. 



448 ANNE. 

That night, when darkness fell, many hearts remem- 
bered her, lying alone in the far-off cemetery, the ceme- 
tery we call Greenwood, although no wood made by Na- 
ture's hffud alone bears the cold white marble flowers 
which ai e found on those fair slopes. And when the next 
morning dawned, with dull gray clouds and rain, there 
were many who could not help thinking of the beautiful 
form which had fared softly and delicately all its life, 
which had felt only the touch of finest linen and softest 
silk, which had never suffered from the cold or the storm, 
now lying there alone in the dark soaked earth, with the 
rain falling upon its defenseless head, and no one near 
to replace the wet lilies which the wind had blown from 
the mound. 

But those who were thinking thus were mistaken : some 
one was near. A girl clad in black and closely veiled 
stood beside the new-made grave, with tears dropping on 
her cheeks, and her hand pressed over her heart. There 
were many mourners yesterday ; there was but one to-day. 
There were many flowers then ; now there was only the 
bunch of violets which this girl had brought. She had 
knelt beside the mound, her head undefended from the 
rain, and had prayed silently. Then she had risen, but 
still she could not go. She paced slowly up and down 
beside the grave, like a sentinel keeping watch; only 
when she perceived that one of the men employed in the 
cemetery was watching her curiously, no doubt wonder- 
ing why she remained there in the storm, did she turn 
away at last, and go homeward again b}^ the long route 
she had traversed in coming. 

For Anne had not dared to go to the funeral ; had not 
dared to go to Miss Teller. The hideous sentence in the 
newspaper had filled her with doubt and vague alarm. 
It was not possible that she, Anne, was meant; and yet 
Bagshot, from whom this as yet unrevealed testimony 
was to come, saw her on the day she visited Helen, after 
the tidings of her husband's death. Surely this was too 
slight a foundation upon which to found her vague alarm. 
She repeated to herself that her dread was unreasonable, 
vet it would not down. If the danger had been open, she 



ANNE. 449 

could liave faced and defied it ; but this mute, unknown 
something, wliich was only to be revealed by the power 
and in the presence of the law, held her back, bound hand 
and foot, afraid almost to breathe. For her presence or 
words mig-ht, in some way she could not foresee or even 
comprehend, bring" increased danger upon the Head of the 
accused man, already weighted down with a -crushing 
load of suspicion, which grew heavier every hour. 

Suspense supplies a calmness of its own. Anne went 
into the city as usual, gave her lessons, and went through 
all the forms of her accustomed living, both at home 
and abroad. Yet all the time she was accompanied by a 
muffled shape, its ghostly eyes fixed upon her through its 
dark veil, menacing but silent. It was dread. 

When the hour came, and she knew that the old words 
were being spoken over Helen: "In the midst of life we 
are in death: of whom may we seek for succor but of 
Thee?" "Before the mountains were brought forth, or 
ever the earth and the world were made, Thou art God 
from everlasting." "A thousand years in Thy sight are 
but as yesterday, seeing that is pastas a watch in the 
night." "And now, Lord, what is my hope ? Truly my 
hope is even in Thee" — she bowed her head and joined in 
the sentences mutely, present at least in spirit. The next 
day, while the rain fell sombrely, she went to the distant 
cemetery : no one would be there in the storm, and she 
wished to stand once more by Helen's side — poor Helen, 
beautiful Helen, taken from this life's errors forever, 
perhaps already, in another world, understanding all, re- 
pentant for all, forgiving all. 

There was no one to whom Anne could speak upon the 
subject which was burning like a constant fire within her 
heart. And when, a few days later, a letter came from 
Gregory Dexter, she opened it eagerly : there would be, 
there must be, comfort here. She read the pages quickly, 
and her heart stood still. " If I thought that there was the 
least danger that the secret of this cowardly, cruel deed 
would not be found out," wrote Dexter, "I should at 
once leave all this labor in which I am engaged, impor- 
tant as it is, and devote myself to the search for proofs to 

29 



450 ANNE. 

convict the murderer. Never in my life has my desire for 
swift, sharp justice been so deeply stirred." 

Anne laid down the letter with a trembling hand. If 
he "thought that there was the least danger"; then he 
thought there was none. But so far no one had been 
apprehended, or even suspected, save Ward Heathcote 
alone. Did he tliink, then, that Heathcote was guilty? 
Could he think this, knowing him as he did, having been 
in a certain sense his companion and friend ? 

Dexter had not liked Heathcote personally, but he was 
capable of just judgment above his personal likings and 
dislikings, and Anne knew it. She knew that he had 
examined the testimony impartially. It must be, then, 
it must be, that there were grounds for his belief. She 
took her pen and wrote a burning letter — a letter of 
entreaty and passionate remonstrance. And then, the 
next morning, she burned it : she must not write or sj^eak 
on the subject at all, not even to him. 

The slow days moved onward like the processions of 
a dream. But no one noticed any change in the young 
teacher, who journeyed wearily through the long hours. 
Old Nora saw the piles of newspapers in her mistress's 
room, but as she could not read, they betrayed nothing. 
She would not, besides, have recognized Helen under the 
name of Heathcote ; the beautiful lady who had visited 
the half-house in the days of Jeanne-Armande was named 
Lorrington. The slow days moved on, but not without 
events. In this case the law had moved speedily. An 
indictment had been found, and the trial was to take place 
without delay in the county town of the district to which 
Timloesville belonged. 

Miss Teller had gone to this town ; the newspapers said 
that she had taken a house, and would remain during the 
trial, or as long as Captain Heathcote was confined there. 
Anne, reading these items, reading the many descriptions 
of Heathcote, the suggestions regarding the murder, the 
theories concerning the blunder (for it was conceded that 
there had been a blunder), asked herself wonderingly if he 
had no friends left — no friends on earth, save herself and 
Miss Teller ? The whole world seemed to be against him. 



ANNE. 451 

But she judged only from the newspapers. There was an- 
other side. This was a small, local, but in one way power- 
ful, minority, which stood by the accused man immov- 
ably. This minority was composed almost entirely of 
women — women high in New York society, Helen's own 
companions and friends. They formed a determined 
band of champions, who, without condescending to use 
any arguments, but simply through their own personal- 
ity, exerted a strong influence, limited, it is true, but des- 
potic. If the case was tried beforehand by the newspa- 
pers, it was also tried beforehand by sweet voices and 
scornful lips in many New York drawing-rooms. Society 
resolved itself into two parties — those who did and those 
who did not believe in the guilt of the imprisoned man. 
Those who did belie v^e were almost all men ; those who 
did not, almost all women ; the exceptions being a few men 
who stood by Heathcote in spite of the evidence, and a few 
women who, having logical minds, stood by the evidence 
in spite of themselves. 

When the trial began, not only was Miss Teller present, 
but Mrs. Varce and Isabel, Mrs. Bannert and her daugh- 
ter-in-law, together with others equally well known as 
friends of Helen's, and prominent members of New 
York's fashionable society. 

Multomah, the little county town, was excited ; its one 
hotel was crowded. The country people came in to at- 
tend the trial from miles around ; great lawyers were to 
be present, there was to be "mighty fine speaking." The 
gentleman had murdered his wife for the million dollars 
she constantly carried with her. The gentleman had 
murdered his wife because she had just discovered that 
he was already married before he met her, and he was 
afraid she would reveal the secret. A local preacher im- 
proved the occasion by a sermon decked profusely with 
Apollyons and Abaddons. It was not clearly known 
what he meant, or where he stood ; but the discourse was 
listened to by a densely packed crowd of farming people, 
who came out wiping their foreheads, and sat down on 
convenient tombstones to talk it over, and eat their din- 
ners, brought in baskets, trying the case again beforehand 



452 ANNE. 

for the five-hundredth time, with texts and Scripture 
phrases thrown in to give it a Sabbath flavor. 

The New York dailies had sent their reporters ; every 
evening Anne read their telegraphic summaries of the 
day's events ; every morning, the account of the same in 
detail. She was not skillful enough to extract the real 
evidence from the mass of irrelevant testimony with 
which it was surrounded, the questions and answers, the 
confusing pertinacity of the lawyers over some little point 
which seemed to her as far from the real subject as a blade 
of grass is from the fixed stars. She turned, therefore, to 
the printed comments which day by day accompanied the 
report of the proceedings, gathering from them the pro- 
gress made, and their ideas of the probabilities which lay 
in the future. The progress seemed rapid ; the proba- 
bilities were damning. No journal pretended that they 
were otherwise. Yet still the able pens of the calmer 
writers counselled deliberation. ' ' There have been cases 
with even closer evidence than this," they warningly 
wrote, "in which the accused, by some unexpected and 
apparently trivial turn in the testimony, has been proven 
clearly innocent. In this case, while the evidence is 
strong, it is difficult to imagine a motive. Mrs. Heath- 
cote was much attached to her husband ; she was, besides, 
a beautiful, accomplished, and fascinating woman. That 
a man should deliberately plan to murder such a wife, 
merely in order to obtain possession of wealth which was 
already practically his, is incredible ; and until some more 
reasonable motive is discovered, many will refuse to be- 
lieve even the evidence." 

Anne, reading this sentence, felt faint. So far the mys- 
terious testimony to which vague allusion had been made 
in the beginning had not been brought forward ; the time 
had been occupied by the evidence concerning the events 
at Timloesville, and the questioning and cross-questioning 
of the Timloesville witnesses. A " more reasonable mo- 
tive." The veiled shape that accompanied her seemed to 
assume more definite outline, and to grow from Dread 
into Fear. And yet she could not tell of what she was 
afraid. 



ANNE. 453 

The days passed, and she wondered how it was that she 
could still eat, and sleep, and speak as usual, while her 
whole being was away in that little Pennsylvania town. 
She did speak and teach as usual, but she did not eat or 
sleep. Something besides food sustained her. Was it 
hope ? Or fear ? Oh, why did not all the world cry out 
that he was not, could not be guilty ! Were jDeople all 
mad, and deaf, and blind ? She lived on in a suspense 
which was like a continual endurance of suffocation, 
which yet never quite attains the relief of death. 

Miss Teller's lawyers labored with skill and vigilance ; 
all that talent — nay, more, genius — could do, they did. 
Their theory was that the murder was committed by a 
third person, who entered Mrs. Heathcote's room by the 
same outside stairway which her husband had used, after 
his departure; and they defied the prosecution to prove 
that they were wrong. In answer to this theory the pro- 
secution presented certain facts, namely: that Heathcote 
was seen entering by the outside stairway, and that no 
one else was seen ; that the impressions found there were 
those of a left hand, and that Heathcote was at the time 
left-handed ; that a towel, marked with the name of the 
hotel and stained with blood, was found on the river-bank 
at'the end of a direct trail from the garden, and that the 
chamber-maid testified that, whereas she had placed four 
towels in the room a few hours before, there were in the 
morning but two remaining, and that no others were 
missing from the whole number owned by the hotel. 

At this stage of the proceedings, Anne, sitting in her 
own room as usual now in the evening, with one news- 
paper in her hand and the others scattered on the floor by 
her side, heard a knock on the door below, but, in her ab- 
sorption, paid no attention to it. In a few moments, 
however, Nora came up to say that Mr. Dexter was in the 
parlor, and wished to see her. 

Here was an unexpected trial. She had sent a short, 
cai'efully guarded answer to his long letter, and he had 
not written again. It had been comparatively easy to 
guard written words. But could she command those 
that must be spoken ? She bathed her face in cold water. 



454 ANNE. 

and stood waiting" until she felt that she had called up a 
calmer expression; she charged herself to guard every 
look, every word, even the tones of her voice. Then she 
went down. 

Chapter XXXII. 

"I can account for nothing you women do, although I have lived 
among you seventy-five years." — Walter Savage Landor. 

As she entered the little parlor, Dexter came forward 
to meet her. "You are looking very well," he said, 
almost reproachfully. 

"I am very well," she answered, "And you ?" 

' ' Not well at all. What with the constant and harass- 
ing work I am doing, and this horrible affair concerning 
poor Helen, I confess that I feel worn and old. It is not 
often that I acknowledge either. I have been busy in 
the city all day, and must return to my post on the mid- 
night train ; but I had two or three hours to spare, and so 
I have come out to see you. Before we say anything else, 
however, tell me about yourself. How is it with you at 
present ?" 

Glad of a respite, she described to him, with more de- 
tails than she had hitherto thought necessary, her posi- 
tion, her pupils, and her daily life. She talked rapidly, 
giving him no opportunity to speak; she hardly knew 
herself as she went along. At last, however, he did break 
through the stream of her words. " I am glad you find 
interest in these matters," he said, coldly. "With me 
it is difPerent; I can think of nothing but poor Helen." 

It was come : now for self-control. All her words fail- 
ed suddenly ; she could not speak. 

' ' Are you not haunted by it ?" he continued. ' ' Do you 
not constantly see her lying there asleep, that pale hair 
unbraided, those small helpless hands bare of all their jew- 
els — poor defenseless little hands, decked only with the 
mockery of that wedding ring ?" 

He was gazing at the wall, as though it were all pictured 
there. Anne made no reply, and after a pause he went 
on. ' ' Helen was a fascinating woman ; but she was, or 



ANNE. 455 

could be if she chose, an intensely exasperating woman as 
well. I am no coward ; I think I may say the reverse ; 
but I would rather be alone with a tigress than w^ith such 
a woman as she would have been, if roused to jealous fury. 
She would not have stirred, she would not have raised her 
voice, but she would have spoken words that would have 
stung like asps and cut like Damascus blades. No devil 
would have shown in that kind of torment greater ingenu- 
ity. I am a self-controlled man, yet I can imagine Helen 
Lorrington driving me, if she had tried, into such a state of 
frenzy that I should hardly know what I w^^s doing. In 
such a case I should end, I think, by crushing her in my 
arms, and fairly strangling the low voice that taunted me. 
But — I could never have stabbed her in her sleep !" 

Again he paused, and again Anne kept silence. But 
he did not notice it ; he was absorbed in his own train of 
thought. 

" It is a relief to speak of this to you," he continued, 
"for you knew Helen, and Heathcote also. Do you 
know I can imagine just how she worked upon him ; how 
that fair face and those narrow eyes of hers wrouglit their 
deadly darts. Her very want of strength was an access- 
ory; for if she could have risen and struck him, if she 
had been capable of any such strong action, the exasper- 
ation would have been less. But that a creature so help- 
less, one whose slight form he had been used to carry 
about the house in his arms, one who could not walk far 
unaided — that such a creature should lie there, in all her 
delicate beauty, and with barbed w^ords deliberately tor- 
ment him — Anne, I can imagine a rush of madness which 
might well end in murder and death. But not a plot. 
If he had killed her in a passion, and then boldly avowed 
the deed, giving himself up, I should have had some sym- 
pathy with him, in spite of the horror of the deed. But 
to arrange the method of his crime (as he evidently tried 
to do) so that he would not be discovered, but be enabled 
quietly to inherit her money — bah! I almost ^vish I were 
the hangman myself ! Out on the border he would have 
been lynched long ago." 

His listener still remained mute, but a little fold of 



456 ANNE. 

flesh inside her lips was bitten through by her clinched 
teeth in the effort she made to preserve that muteness. 

It seemed to have been a relief to Dexter to let out those 
strong words. He paused, turned toward Anne, and for 
the first time noted her dress. ' ' Are you in mourning ?" 
he asked, doubtfully, looking at the unbroken black of her 
attire. 

" It is the same dress I have worn for several months." 

He did not know enough of the details of a woman's 
garb to see that the change came from the absence of 
white at the throat and Avi'ists. After Helen's death poor 
Anne had sewed black lace in her plain black gown; it 
was the only mourning she could allow herself. 

The moment was now come when she must say some- 
thing. Dexter, his outburst over, was leaning back in his 
chair, looking at her. ' ' Miss Teller has gone to Multo- 
mah, I believe," she remarked, neutrally. 

"Yes; singularly enough, she believes him innocent. 
I heard, while in the city to-day, that the Varces and Ban- 
nerts and others of that set believe it also, and are all at 
Multomah ' for the moral effect.' For the moral effect !" 
He threw back his head and laughed scornfully. ' ' I wish 
I had time to run up there myself," he added, "to dwell 
upon the moral effect of all those fbie ladies. However, 
the plain American people have formed their own opin- 
ion of this case, and are not likely to be moved by such in- 
fluences. They understand. This very evening, on the 
train, I heard a mechanic say, ' If the jurymen were only 
fine ladies, now, that Heathcote would get off yet.' " 

" How can you repeat such words?" said the girl, blaz- 
ing out suddenly and uncontrollably, as a fire which has 
been long smothered bursts into sudden and overpower- 
ing flame at the last. 

" Of course it is bad taste to jest on such a subject. I 
only— Why, Anne, what is the matter ?" For she had 
risen and was standing before him, her eyes brilliant with 
an expression which was almost hate. 
"You believe that he did it ?" she said. 
"I do." 
"And I do not! You say that Helen taunted him, 



ANNE. 457 

that she drove him into a frenzy ; you imagine the scene, 
and picture its details. Know that Helen loved him with 
her whole heart. Whatever she may have been to you, to 
him she was utterly devoted, living upon his words and 
his smile. She esteemed herself blessed simply to be near 
him — in his presence; and, on that very night, she said 
that no wife was ever so happy, and that on her knees she 
had thanked her Creator for that which made her life one 
long joy." 

Gregory Dexter's face had showed the profoundest won- 
der while the excited girl was speaking, but by the time 
she ceased he had, in his quick way, grasped something 
of the truth, unexpected and astonishing though it was. 

' ' You know this ? ' ' he said. ' ' Then she wrote to you. " 

"Yes." 

"On the evening of her death?" 

"Yes." 

" Bagshot testifies that when she left the room, at nine, 
Mrs. Heathcote was writing. Was that this letter to you?" 

" I presume it was." 

"When and how was it mailed? Or rather, what is 
the date of the jDOstmark?" 

"The next morning." 

Dexter looked at her searchingly. "This may prove 
to be very important," he said. 

"I know it — now." 

"Why have you not spoken before?" 

"To whom could I speak? Besides, it has not seemed 
important to me until now ; for no one has suggested that 
she did not love her husband, that she tormented him and 
drove him into fury, save yourself alone." 

"You will see that others will suggest it also," said 
Dexter, unmoved by her scorn. ' ' Are you prepared to 
produce this letter ?" 

"I have it." 

"Can I see it?" 

" I would rather not show it." 

"There is determined concealment here somewhere, 
Anne, and I am much troubled; I fear you stand very 
near great danger. Remember that this is a serious mat- 



458 ANNE. 

ter, and ordinary rules should be set aside, ordinary feel- 
ings sacrificed. You will do well to show me that let- 
ter, and, in short, to tell me the whole truth plainly. Do 
you think you have any friend more steadfast than my- 
self ?'' 

"You are kind. But — you are prejudiced." 

"Against Heathcote, do you mean ?" said Dexter, a sud- 
den flash coming for an instant into his gray eyes. " Is 
it possible that you, you too, are interested in that man ?" 

But at this touch upon her heart the girl controlled her- 
self again. She resumed her seat, with her face turned 
toward the window. " I do not believe that he did it, and 
you do," she answered, quietly. "That makes a wide 
separation between us." 

But for the moment the man who sat opposite had for- 
gotten the present, to ask himself, with the same old in- 
ward wonder and anger, why it was that this other man, 
who had never done anything or been anything in his 
life, who had never denied himself, never worked, never 
accomplished anything — why it was that such a man as 
this had led captive Helen, Rachel, and now perhaps Anne. 
If it had been a case of great personal beauty, he could 
have partially accounted for it, and — scorned it. But it 
was not. Many a face was more regularly handsome than 
Heathcote's; he knew that he himself would be pro- 
nounced by the majority a handsomer, although of course 
older, man. But when he realized that he was going 
over this same old bitter ground, by a strong effort of 
will he stopped himself and returned to reality. Heath- 
cote's power, whatever it was, and angry as it made him, 
was nevertheless a fact, and Dexter never contradicted 
facts. With his accurate memory, he now went back and 
took up Anne's last answer. ' ' You say I believe it. It 
is true," he said, turning toward her (he had been sitting 
with his eyes cast down during this whirl of feeling) ; 
' ' but my belief is not founded upon prejudice, as you seem 
to think. It rests upon the evidence. Let us go over the 
evidence together : women are sometimes intuitively 
right, even against reason." 

"I can not go over it." 



ANNE. 459 

But he persisted. " It would be better," he said, deter- 
mined to draw the whole truth from her, if not in one 
way, then in another. For he realized how important 
it was that she should have an adviser. 

She looked up and met his eyes ; they were kind but 
unyielding-. "Very well," she said, making an effort to 
do even this. She leaned back in her chair and folded 
her hands: people could endure, then, more than they 
knew. 

Dexter, not giving her a moment's delay, began im- 
mediately: his object was to rouse her and draw her out. 
' ' We will take at first simply the testimony, " he said. ' ' I 
have the main points here in my note-book. We will even 
suppose that we do not know the persons concerned, but 
think of them as strangers." He went over the evidence 
clearly and briefly. Then the theories. "Note," he 
said, "the diiference. On one side we have a series of 
facts, testified to by a number of persons. On the other, 
a series of possibilities, testified to by no one save the pris- 
oner himself. The defense is a theory built to fit the 
case, without one proof, no matter how small, as a foun- 
dation." 

Anne had not stirred. Her eyes were turned away, 
gazing into the darkness of the garden. Dexter closed his 
note-book, and returned it to his pocket. 

" They have advanced no further in the real trial," he 
said ; ' ' but you and I will now drop our role of strangers, 
and go on. We know him ; we knew her. Can we think 
of any cause which would account for such an act ? Was 
there any reason why Ward Heathcote would liave been 
relieved by the death of his wife?" 

Anne remained silent. 

" The common idea that he wished to have sole control 
of her wealth will hardly, I think, be received by those 
who have personally known him," continued Dexter. 
"He never cared for money. He was, in my opinion, 
ostentatiously indifferent to it." Here he paused to con- 
trol the tone of his voice, which was growing bitter. 
"I repeat — can you imagine any other reason?" he said. 
Still she did not answer. 



460 ANNE. 

"Why do you not answer? I shall begin to suspect 
that you do." 

At this she stirred a little, and he was satisfied. He 
had moved her from her rigidity. Not wishing to alarm 
her, he went on, tentatively: "My theory of the motive 
you are not willing to allow; still, I consider it a possible 
and even probable one. For they were not happy: he 
was not happy. Beautiful as she w^as, rich as she was, I 
was told, when I first came eastward in the spring, soon 
after their marriage, that had it not been for that acci- 
dent and the dangerous illness that followed, Helen Lor- 
rington would never have been Ward Heathcote's wife." 

" Who told you this?" said Anne, turning toward him. 

' ' I did not hear it from her, but it came from her — Ra- 
chel Bannert." 

" She is a traitorous woman." 

"Yes; but traitors betray — the truth." 

He was watching her closely ; she felt it, and turned 
toward the window again, so that he should not see her 
eyes. 

' ' Suppose that he did not love her, but had married her 
under the influence of pity, when her life hung by a 
thread; suppose that she loved him — you say she did. 
Can you not imagine that there might have been mo- 
ments when she tormented him beyond endurance con- 
cerning his past life — who knows but his x^resent also ? 
She was jealous; and she had Avon d erf ul ingenuity. But 
I doubt if you comprehend what I mean: a woman never 
knows a woman as a man knows her. And Heathcote was 
not patient. He is a self-indulgent man — a man who 
has been comx^letely spoiled." 

Again he paused. Then he could not resist bringing 
forward something else, under any circumstances, to show 
her that she was of no consequence in the case compared 
with another person. "It is w^hispered, I hear, that the 
maid will testify that there was a motive, and a strong 
one, namely, a rival; that there was another woman 
whom Heathcote really loved, and that Helen knew this, 
and used the knowledge," 

The formless dread which accompanied Anne began 




HE ROSE, AND TOOK HER COLD HANDS IN HIS 



ANNE. 461 

now to assume definite outline and draw nearer. She 
gazed at her inquisitor with eyes full of dumb distress. 

He rose, and took her cold hands in his. "Child," he 
said, earnestly, " I beseech you tell me all. It will be so 
much better for you, so much safer. You are suffering 
intensely. I have seen it all the evening. Can you not 
trust me?" 

She still looked at him in silence, while the tears rose, 
welled over, and rolled slowly down. 

"Can you not trust me ?" he repeated. 

She shook her head. 

"But as you have told me something, why not tell me 
all ?" 

" I am afraid to tell all," she whispered. 

" For yourself ?" 

"No." 

" For him, then ?" 

"Yes." 

He clinched his hand involuntarily as he heard this an- 
swer. Her pale face and agitation were all for him, then — 
for Ward Heathcote ! 

' ' You are really shaken by fear, " he said. ' ' I know its 
signs, or ratlier those of dread. It is pure dread which has 
possession of you now. How unlike you, Anne ! How 
unlike yourself you are at this moment!" 

But she cared nothing for herself, nothing for the scorn 
in his voice (the jealous are often loftily scornful), and he 
saw that she did not. 

' ' Whom do you fear ? The maid ?" 

"Yes." 

"What can she say ?" 

" I do not know ; and yet — " 

"Is it possible — can it be possible, Anne, that you are 
the person implicated, the so-called rival ?" 

"I do not know ; and it is because I do not know that 
I am so much afraid," she answered, still in the same low 
whisper. 

' ' But why should you take this possibility upon your- 
self ? Ward Heathcote is no Sir G-alahad, Heaven knows. 
Probably at this moment twenty women are trembling as 



462 ANNE. 

you are trembling, fearing lest they be called by name, 
and forced forward before the world." 

He spoke with anger. Anne did not contradict him, 
but she leaned her head upon her hand weariedly, and 
closed her eyes. 

" How can I leave you ?" he said, breaking into his old 
kindness again. " I ought to go, but it is like leaving a 
girl in the hands of torturers. If there wer-e only some one 
to be with you here until all this is over!" 

" There is no one. I want no one." 

' ' You puzzle me deeply, " he said, walking up and down 
with troubled anxiety. "I can form no opinion as to 
whether your dread is purely imaginary or not, because 
you tell me nothing. If you were an ordinary woman, I 
should not give much thought to what you say — or rather 
to what you look, for you say nothmg ; but you are not or- 
dinary. You are essentially brave, and you have fewer 
of the fantastic, irrelevant fancies of women than any girl 
I have ever known. There must be something, then, to 
fear, since you fear so intensely, I like you, Anne; I re- 
spect you. I admire you too, more than you know. You 
are so utterly alone in this trouble that I can not desert 
you. And I will not." 

" Do not stay on my account." 

' ' But I shall. That is, in the city ; it is decided. Here 
is my address. Promise that if you should wish help or ad- 
vice in any way — mark that I say, in any way — you will 
send me instantly a dispatch." 

"I will." 

' ' There is nothing more that I can do for you ?" 

"Nothing." 

' ' And nothing that you will tell me ? Think well, child. " 

"Nothing." 

Then, as it was late, he made her renew her promise, 
and went away. 

The next morning the package of newspapers was 
brought to Anne from the station at an early hour as us- 
ual. She was in her own room waiting for them. She 
watched the boy coming along the road, and felt a sud- 
den thrill of anger when he stopped to throw a stone 



ANNE. 468 

at a bird. To stop with that in his hand! Old Nora 
brought up the x)ackage. Anne took it, and closed the 
door. Then she sat down to read. 

Half an hour later, Gregory Dexter received a telegraphic 
dispatch from Lancaster. " Come immediately. A. D." 



Chapter XXXIII. 

"He was first always. Fortune 

Shone bright in his face. 
I fought for years ; with no effort 

He conquered the place. 
We ran ; my feet were all bleeding, 

But he won the race. 

" My home was still in the shadow ; 
His lay in the sun. 
I longed in vain ; what he asked for, 

It straightway Avas done. 
Once I staked all my heart's treasure; 
We played — and he won!" 

— Adelaide Procter. 

When the dispatch came, Dexter had not yet seen the 
morning papers. He ate his breakfast hastily, and on 
the way to the station and on the train he read them with 
surprise and a tumultuous mixture of other feelings, 
which he did not stop then to analyze. Mrs. Bagshot 
had been brought forward a second time by the prosecu- 
tion, and had testified to an extraordinary conversation 
Avhich had taken place between Mrs. Heathcote and an 
unknown young girl on the morning after the news of 
Captain Heathcote's death in the Shenandoah Valley had 
been received, parts of which (the convei'sation) she, in 
an adjoining room, had overheard. He had barely time 
to grasp the tenor of the evidence (which was voluminous 
and interrupted by many questions) when the train reach- 
ed Lancaster, and he found Li in waiting' with the red 
wagon. All Li could tell was that Miss Douglas was "go- 
ing on a journey." She was "all ready, with her bon- 
net on." 

In the little parlor he found her, walking up and down, 



464 ANNE. 

as he had walked during the preceding evening. White 
as her face was, there was a new expression in her eyes — an 
expression of energy. In some way she had reached a pos- 
sibility of action, and consequently a relief. When he had 
entered, with a rapid motion she closed the doors. ' ' Have 
you read it V she said. 

' ' You mean the new testimony ? Yes ; I read it as I 
came out." 

"And you understood, of course, that it was I?" 

" I feared it might be." 

"And you see that I must go immediately to Multomah ?" 

" By heavens 1 no. I see nothing of the kind. Rather 
should you hasten as far away as possible — to England, 
Germany — some distant spot where you can safely rest 
until all danger, danger of discovery, is over." 

" So you believe it also!" cried the girl, with scathing 
emphasis. "You believe and condemn! Believe that 
garbled, distorted story ; condemn, when you only know 
half ! Like all the rest of the world, you are in haste to 
believe, glad to believe, the worst — in haste to join the 
hue and cry against a hunted man." 

She stood in the centre of the room, her form drawn up 
to its full height, her eyes flashing. She looked inspired 
— inspired with anger and scorn. 

"Then it is garbled ?" said Dexter, finding time even at 
that moment to admire her beauty, which had never be- 
fore been so striking. 

' ' It is. And I must go to Multomah and give the true 
version. Tell me what train to take." 

" First tell me, Anne ; tell me the whole story. Let me 
hear it before you give it to the world. Surely there can 
be no objection to my knowing it now." 

' ' There is no objection ; but I can not lose the time. I 
must start." 

A travelling-bag stood on the table beside her shawl 
and gloves ; the red wagon was waiting outside. He com- 
prehended that nothing would stop her, and took his mea- 
sures accordingly. 

"I can arrange everything for you, and I will, and 
without the least delay. But first you must tell me the 



ANNE. 465 

whole," he said, sitting down and folding his arms. *' I 
will not work in the dark. As to time, the loss of an 
hour is nothing compared with the importance of gaining 
my co-operation, for the moment I am convinced, I will 
telegraph to the court-room itself, and stop proceedings 
until you arrive. With my help, my name, my influence, 
behind you, you can accomplish anything. But what 
could you do alone? You would be misunderstood, mis- 
represented, subjected to doubt, suspicion, perhaps insult. 
Have you thought of this ?" 

" I mind nothing if I can but save him." 
" But if you can save him more effectually with my as- 
sistance ?" 

"How can that be, when you dislike, suspect him ?" 
' ' Do you wish to drive me into a rage ? Can I not be 
just to Ward Heathcote whether I like him or not, suspect 
him or not ? Yes, even though I believe him to be guilty ? 
Try me. If I promise to go with you to Muitomah to-day, 
even if I think your presence there will be of no avail, 
will that induce you ?" 
"Yes." 

"Then I promise." 
- Without pausing, she sat down by the table, taking a 
newspaper from her pocket. "You have one," she said ; 
"please follow me in the one you have. When I saw 
the notice of his death, I went immediately to Helen. 
This woman Bagshot testifies that she was in the next 
room. I am positive that at first both the doors of Helen's 
room were closed ; Bagshot, therefore, must have slightly 
opened one of them afterward unobserved by us. There 
was a curtain hanging partly over this door, but only 
partly ; she could have opened it, therefore, but slightly, 
or we should have noticed the change. This accounts for 
the little that she caught — only those sentences that were 
spoken in an elevated voice, for Helen's room is large. It 
will shorten the story, I think, if we read the summary on 
the editorial page." And in a clear voice she read as fol- 
lows : " ' Our readers will remember that at the beginning 
of the Heathcote trial we expressed the opinion that until 
some more probable motive for the deed than the desire 

30 



466 ANNE. 

to obtain control of wealtli already practically his own was 
discovered in connection with the accused, the dispassion- 
ate observer would refuse to believe his guilt, despite the 
threatening nature of the evidence. This motive ap- 
pears now to have been supplied. In another column 
parts of a remarkable conversation are given, overheard 
by the witness Bagshot— a conversation between Mrs. 
Heathcote and an unknown and beautiful young girl, 
who came to the house on the morning after the announce- 
ment of Captain Heathcote's death in the Shenandoah 
Valley, and before the contradiction of the same had been 
received. This young girl was a stranger to the man Simp- 
son, who opened the front door, and Simpson has been in 
Mrs. Heathcote's service for some time. He testifies that 
she was denied entrance, Mrs. Heathcote not being able to 
see any one. She then tore a leaf from her note-book, 
wrote a line upon it, and requested him to carry it to his 
mistress, adding tliat she thought Mrs. Heathcote would 
see her. As intimate friends had already been refused, 
Simpson was incredulous, but performed his duty. To 
his surprise, Mrs. Heathcote sent Bagshot to say that the 
stranger was to come to her immediately, and accordingly 
she was ushered up stairs, and the door closed. Upon be- 
ing questioned as to what the line of writing Avas, Simp- 
son replied that he did not read it. Bagshot, however, 
testifies that, in accordance with her duty, she cast her eye 
over it, and that it contained the following words: "Do 
let me come to you. Crystal. " The word ' ' Crystal" was 
a signature, and Mrs. Heathcote seemed to recognize it. 
Bagshot testifies that the visitor was young and beautiful, 
although plainly, almost poorly, dressed, and tliat she re- 
mained with Mrs. Heathcote nearly two hours. Very soon 
after her departure the telegraphic dispatch was received 
announcing Captain Heathcote's safety, and then the wife 
started on that fatal journey whicli was to end in death. 

" ' This woman, Bagshot, so far the most important wit- 
ness in the case, testifies that she heard only parts of the 
conversation — a few detached sentences which were spok- 
en in an elevated tone. But, disconnected as the phrases 
are, they are brimming with significance. The important 



ANNE. 467 

parts of her story are as follows : First, she heard Mrs. 
Heathcote say, "I shall never rest until you tell me all !'' 
Second, that she cried out excitedly: "You have robbed 
me of his love. I will never forgive you.-' Third, that 
she said, rapidly and in a high, strained voice : "Since 
he saw you he has never loved me; I see it now. He 
married me from pity, no doubt thinking that I was near 
death. How many times he must have wished me dead 
indeed! I wonder that he has not "murdered me." 
Fourth, that later she said : "Yes, he has borne it so far, 
and now he is dead. But if he were alive, I should have 
taunted him with it. Do you hear ? I say I should have 
taunted him." Fifth (and most remarkable of all), that 
this stranger made a strong and open avowal of her own 
love for the dead man, the extraordinary words of which 
are given in another column. There are several other 
sentences, but they are unfinished and comparatively un- 
important. 

' ' ' The intelligent observer will not fail to note the sig- 
nificance of this testimony, which bears upon the case not 
only by supplying a motive for the deed, but also, possi- 
bly, its immediate cause, in the words of the deeply roused 
and jealous wife: "I should have taunted him with it. I 
say I should have taunted him." 

" 'The witness has been subjected to the closest cross- 
questioning; it seems impossible to confuse her, or to 
shake her evidence in the slightest degree. Divest her 
testimony of all comment and theory, and it still remains 
as nearly conclusive as any evidence, save ocular, can be. 
She it is who saw the prisoner enter his wife's room by 
stealth shortly before the murder; she it is who over- 
heard the avowal of the rival, the rage and bitter jealousy 
of the wife, and her declaration that if her husband had 
lived she would have made known to him her discovery, 
and taunted him with it. 

" 'He did live; the report of his death was a mistake. 
It is more than probable that the wife carried out her 
threat.'" 

Here Anne paused and laid the newspaper down ; she 
was composed and grave. 



468 ^NNE. 

"I will now tell you," she said, lifting" her eyes to 
Dexter's face, ' ' what really occurred and what really was 
said. As I stated before, upon seeing the announcement 
of her husband's death, I went to Helen. I wrote upon 
a slip of paper the line you have heard, and signed the 
name by which she always called me. As I had hoped, 
she consented to see me, and this woman, Bagshot, took 
me up stairs to her room. We were alone. Both doors 
were closed at first, I know ; we supposed that they re- 
mained closed all the time. I knelt down by the low couch 
and took her in my arms. I kissed her, and stroked her 
hair. I could not cry; neither could she. I sorrowed 
over her in silence. For some time we did not speak. But 
aftera while, with a long sigh, she said, 'Anne, I deceived 
him about the name in the marriage notice— Angelique; 
I let him think that it was you.' I said, 'It is of no 
consequence,' but she went on. She said that after that 
summer at Caryl's she had noticed a change in him, but 
that she did not think of me ; she thought only of Rachel 
Bannert. But when he brought her the marriage notice, 
and asked if it were I, in an instant an entirely new sus- 
picion leaped into her heart, roused by something in the 
tone of his voice : she always judged him by his voice. 
From that moment, she said, she had never been free from 
the jealous apprehension that he had loved me ; and then, 
looking at me as she lay in my arms, she asked, ' But he 
never did, did he?' 

" If I could have evaded her then, perhaps we should 
both have been spared all that followed, for we both suf- 
fered deeply. But I did not know how ; I answered : ' He 
had fancies, Helen; I may have been one of them. But 
only for a short time. You were his wife.' And then 
I asked her if her married life had not been happy. 

'"Yes, yes,' she answered. 'I worshipped him.' And 
as she said this she began at last to sob, and the first tears 
she had shed flowed from her eyes, which had been so 
dulled and narrowed that they had looked dead. But she 
had not been satisfied, and later she came back to the sub- 
ject again. She did it suddenly ; seizing my arm, and lift- 
ing herself up, she cried out quickly that first sentence 



ANNE. 469 

overheard by Bagsliot — ' I shall never rest until you tell 
me all I' Then, in a beseeching- tone, she added: ' Do not 
keep it from me. I know that he did not love me as I 
loved him ; still, he loved me, and I — was content. What 
you have to tell, therefore, can not hurt me, for — I was 
content. Then speak, Anne, speak. ' 

' ' I tried to quiet her, but she clung to me entreatingly. 
' Tell me — tell me all, ' she begged. ' When they bring him 
home, and I see his still face lying in the coJBfin, I want to 
stand beside him with my hand upon his breast, and whis- 
per that I know all, undei'stand all, forgive all, if there 
were anything to forgive. Anne, he will be glad to hear 
that — yes, even in death; for I loved him — love him — 
with all my soul, and he must know it now, there where 
he has gone. With all my imperfections, my follies, my 
deceptions, I loved him — loved him — loved him. ' She be- 
gan to weep, and I too burst into teal's. It seemed to me 
also that he would be glad to hear that sentence of hers, 
that forgiveness. And so, judging her by myself, I did 
tell her all." 

She paused, and her voice trembled, as though m anoth- 
er moment it would break into sobs. 

"What did you tell her ?" said Dexter. He was lean- 
ing back in his chair, his face divested of all expression 
save a rigid impartiality. 

"Must I repeat it?" 

"Of coui'se, if I am to know all."^ 

"I told her that at Caryl's we had been much together," 
she began, with downcast eyes; "that, after a while, he 
made himself seem much nearer to me by — by speaking 
of — by asking me about — sacred things — I mean a religious 
belief." (Here her listener's face showed a quick gleam 
of angry contempt, but she did not see it.) "Then, after 
this, one morning in the garden, when I was in great 
trouble, he — spoke to me — m another way. And when I 
went away from CaryFs he followed me, and we were to- 
gether on a train during one day ; mademoiselle was with 
us. At evening I left the train with mademoiselle : he 
did not know where we went. At this time I was en- 
gaged to Erastus Pronando. In August of the next sum- 



470 ANNE. 

mer I went to West Virginia to assist in the hospitals for 
a short time. Here, unexpectedly, I heard of him lying 
ill at a farm-house in the neighborhood ; I did not even 
know that he was in the army. I went across the mount- 
ain to see if he were in good hands, and found him very 
ill ; he did not know me. When the fever subsided, there 
were a few hours — during which there was a — deception, 
followed by a confession of the same, and separation. 
He was to go back to his wife, and he did go back to her. 
It was because I believed that he had so fully gone back to 
her — or rather that he had never left her, I having been 
but a passing fancy— that I told Helen all. She suspected 
something ; it was better that she should know the whole 
— should know how short-lived had been his interest in 
me, his forgetfulness of her. But instead of making this 
impression upon her, it roused in her a passion of excite- 
ment. It was then that she exclaimed : ' You have robbed 
me of his love; I will never forgive you' — the second 
sentence overheard by that listening spy. 

" 'Helen,' I answered, 'he did not love me. Do you 
not see that ? I am the one humiliated. When I saw 
you with him at St. Lucien's Church, I knew that he loved 
you — probably had never loved any one save you,' 

"I believed what I said. But this is what she an- 
swered : ' It is not true. Since he saw you he has never 
loved me. I see it now. He married me from pity, no 
doubt thinking that I was near death. How many times 
he must have wished me dead indeed ! I wonder that he 
has not murdered me. ' 

"This, also, Bagshot heard, for Helen had risen to her 
feet, and spoke in a high, strained voice, unlike her own. 
I put my arms round her and drew her down again. She 
struggled, but I would not let her go. 

" ' Helen,' I said, 'you are beside j^ourself. You were 
his wife, and you were happy. That one look I had in 
church showed me that you were.' 

"She relapsed into stillness. After a while she look- 
ed up, and said, quietly, 'It is a good thing he is dead.' 

" ' Hush !' I answered ; ' you do not know what you are 
saying.' 



ANNE. 471 

" ' Yes, I do. It is a good thing that he is dead,' she re- 
peated ; ' for I should have found it out, and made his life 
a torment. And I should never have died ; it would have 
determined me never to die. I should have lived on for- 
ever, an old, old woman, close to him always, so that he 
could not have you.'' 

"She seemed half mad; I think, at the moment, she 
was half mad, owing to the shock, and to the dumb grief 
which was consuming her. 

" ' It would have been a strange life we should have led, ' 
she went on. " I would not have left him even for a mo- 
ment ; he should have put on my shawl and carried me to 
and fro just the same, and I should have kissed him al- 
ways when he went out and came in, as though we loved 
each other. I know his nature. It is — O God ! I mean 
it teas — the kind I could have worked upon. He was 
generous, very tender to all women; he would have yield- 
ed to me always, so far as bearing silently all my torments 
to the last.'" 

Here Dexter interrupted the speaker. "You will ac- 
knowledge now what I said concerning her ?" 

"No," replied Anne; "Helen imagined it all. She 
could never have carried it out. She loved him too 
deeply." 

Her eyes met his defiantly. The old feeling that he 
was an antagonist rose in her face for a moment, met 
by a corresponding retort in his. Then they both dropped 
their glance, and she resumed her narrative. 

' ' It was here that she cried out, ' Yes, he has borne it 
so far, and now he is dead. But if he were alive, I should 
have taunted him with it. Do you hear ? I say I should 
have taunted him.' This also Bagshot overheard. And 
then — " She paused. 

"And then ?" repeated Dexter, his eyes full upon her 
face. 

" She grew calmer," said the girl, turning her face from 
him, and speaking for the fii'st time hurriedly; "she even 
kissed me. ' You were always good and true,' she said. 
* But it was easy to be good and true, if you did not love 
him.' I suppose she felf. my heart throb suddenly (she 



472 ANNE. 

was lying in my arms), for she sprang up, and wound hei 
arms round my neck, bringing her eyes close to mine. 
Did you love him?' she asked. 'Tell me — tell me; it 
will do no harm now.' 

"But I drew myself out of her gi^asp, although she 
clung to me. I crossed the room. She followed me. 
' Tell me,' she whispered; 'I shall not mind it. Indeed, 
I wish that you did love him, that you do love him, for 
then we would mourn for him together. I can be jea- 
lous of his love for you, but not of yours for him, poor 
child. Tell me, Anne ; tell me. I long to know that you 
are miserable too.' She was leaning on me: in truth, 
she was too weak to stand alone. She clung to me in the 
old caressing way. 'Tell me,' she whispered. But I set 
my lips. Then, still clinging to me, her eyes fixed on 
mine, she said that I could not love; that I did not know 
what love meant; that I never would know, because my 
nature was too calm, too measured. She spoke other de- 
riding words, which I will not repeat ; and then — and then 
— I do not know how it came about, but I pushed her 
from me, with her whispering voice and shining eyes, and 
spoke out aloud (we were standing near that door) those 
words — those words which Bagsliot has repeated." 

"You said those words ?" 

"I did." 

" Then you loved him ?" 

"Yes." 

" Do you love him now ?" 

As Dexter asked this question his eyes were fixed upon 
her with a strange intentness. At first she met his gaze 
with the same absorbed expression unconscious of self 
which her face had Avorn from the beginning. Tlien a 
burning blush rose, spread itself over her forehead, and 
dyed even her throat before it faded, ' ' You have no right 
to ask that, " she said, returning to her narrative with haste, 
as though it were a refuge. 

" After I had said those words, there was no more bit- 
terness between us. I think then Helen forgave me. 
She asked me to come and live with her in her desolation, 
I answered that perhaps later I could come, but not then; 



ANNE. 

and it was at this time that she said, not what Bag-shl 
has reported, ' You can not conquer hate,' but, 'You can 
not conquer fate.' And she added : ' We two must be to- 
gether, Anne ; we are bound by a tie which can not be 
severed, even tliough we may wish it. You must bear 
with me, and I must suffer you. It is our fate.' 

' ' Later, she grew more feverish ; her strength was ex- 
hausted. But when at last I rose to go, she went with 
me to the door. ' If he had lived,' she said, 'one of- us 
must have died.' Then her voice sank to a whisper. 
'Changed or died,' she added. ' And as we are not the 
kind of women who change, it would have ended in the 
wearing out of the life of one of us — tlie one who loved the 
most. And people would have called it by some other 
name, and that would have been the end. But now it is 
fie who has been taken, and — oh ! I can not bear it — I can 
not, can not bear it !' " She paused; her eyes were full 
oi tears. 

"Is that all ?" said Dexter, coldly. 

"That is all." 

Then there was a silence. 

' ' Do you not think it important ?" she asked at last, 
with a new timidity in her voice. 

"It will make an impression; it will be your word 
against Bagshot's. The point iDroved will be that instead 
of your ha\dng separated in anger, with words of bitter- 
ness and jealousy, you separated in peace, as friends. Her 
letter will be important, if it proves this." 

' ' It does. I have also another — a little note telling me 
of her husband's safety, and dropped into a letter-box on 
her way to the train. And I have the locket she gave me 
on the day of our last interview. She took it from her 
own neck and clasped it round mine a moment before I left 
her." 

"Did Bagshot know of the existence of this locket?" 

"She must have known it. For Helen said she al- 
ways wore it; and Bagshot dressed her daily." 

"Will you let me see it ? And the two letters also, if 
they are here?" 

"They are up stairs. I will get them." 



474 ANNE. 

What he wished to find out was whether she wore the 
locket. She came back so soon that he said to himself 
she could not have had it on — there had not been time 
to remove it ; besides, as he held it in his hand it was not 
warm. He read the two letters carefully. Then he took 
up the locket again and examined it. It w^as a costly- 
trinket, set with diamonds ; within was a miniature, a life- 
like picture of Helen's husband. 

He looked at his rival silently. The man was in prison, 
charged with the highest crime in the catalogue of crimes, 
and Dexter believed him guilty. Yet it was, all the same, 
above all and through all, the face of his rival still — of 
his triumphant, successful rival. 

He laid down the locket, rose, and went over to Anne. 

She was standing by the window, much dejected that 
he had not been more impressed by the importance of 
that which she had revealed. She looked up as he came 
near. 

"i^nne,"he said, "I have promised to take you to 
Multomah, and I will keep my promise, if you insist. 
But have you considered that if you correct and restate 
Bagshot's testimony in all the other points, you will also 
be required to acknowledge the words of that confession ?" 

"Yes, I know it," she murmured, turning toward the 
window again. 

"It can not but be horribly repugnant to you. Think 
how you will be talked about, misunderstood. The news- 
papers will be black with your name ; it will go through the 
length and breadth of the land accompanied with jests, 
and possibl 3^ with worse than jests. Anne, look up ; listen 
to what I am going to say. Marry me, Anne ; marry me 
to-day ; and go on the witness stand — if go you must — as 
my wife," 

She gazed at him, her eyes widened with surprise. 

He took her hands, and began to plead. "It is a 
strange time in which to woo you ; but it is a strange or- 
deal which you have to go through. As my wife, no one 
w^ill dare to insult you or to misconstrue your evidence ; for 
your marriage will have given the lie beforehand to the 
worst comment that can be made, namely, that you still 



ANNE. 475 

love Heathcote, and hope, if he is acquitted, to be his wife. 
It will be said that you loved him once, but that thi& 
tragedy has changed the feeling, and you will be called 
noble in coming forward of your own accord to acknow- 
ledge an avowal which must be now painful to you in 
the extreme. The ' unknown young girl' will be unknown 
no longer, when she comes forward as Gregory Dexter's 
wife, with G-regory Dexter by her side to give her, m the 
eyes of all men, his proud protection and respect." 

Anne's face responded to the warm earnestness of 
these words: she had never felt herself so powerfully 
drawn toward him as at that moment. 

" As to love, Anne," he continued, his voice softening, 
" do not fancy that I am feigning anything when I say 
that I do love you. The feeling has grown up uncon- 
sciously. I shall love you very dearly when you are my 
wife; you could command me, child, to almost any ex- 
tent. As for your feeling toward me — marry me, and 
I will make you love me." He drew her toward him. 
"I am not too old, too old for you, am I ?" he said, gently. 

" It is not that," she answered, in deep distress. "Oh, 
why, why have you said this ?" 

"Well, because I am fond of you, I suppose," said 
Dexter, smilmg. He thought she was yielding. 

" You do not understand," she said, breaking from him. 
"You are generous and kind, the best friend I have ever 
had, and it is for that reason, if for no other, that I would 
never wrong you by marrying you, because — " 

"Because?" repeated Dexter. 

"Because I still love him." 

"Heathcote?" 

"Yes." 

His face changed sharply, yet he continued his urging. 
"Even if you do love him, you would not marry him 
noic\" 

She did not answer. 

"You would not marry him with poor Helen's blood 
between you ?" 

" It is not between us. He is innocent." 

"But if, after escaping conviction, it should yet be 



476 ANNE. 

made clear to you — perhaps to you alone — that he was 
guilty, then would you marry him?" 

' ' No. But the veiy greatness of his crime would make 
him in a certain way sacred to me on account of the ter- 
rible remorse and anguish he would have to endure," 

"A good way to punish criminals," said Dexter, bitter- 
ly. ' ' To give them your love and your life, and make 
them happy." 

' ' He would not be happy ; he would be a wretched man 
through every moment of his life, and die a wretched 
death. Whatever forgiveness might come in another 
world, there would be none in this. Helen herself would 
wish me to be his friend." 

"For the ultra-refinement of self-deception, give me a 
woman," said Dexter, with even deepened bitterness. 

"But why do we waste time and words ?" continued 
Anne. Then seeing him take up his hat and turn toward 
the door, she ran to him and seized his arm. ' ' You are 
not going?" she cried, abandoning the subject with a 
quick, burning anxiety which told more than all the rest. 
"Will you not take me, as you promised, to Multomah ?" 

"You still ask me to take you there ?" 

"Yes, yes." 

"What do you think a man is made of?" he said, 
throwing down his hat, but leaving her, and walking 
across to the window. 

Anne followed him. "Mr. Dexter," she said, standing 
behind him, shrinkingly, so that he could not see her, 
' ' would you wish me to marry you when I love — love 
him, as I said, in those words which you have read, and 
— even more ?" Her face was crimson, her voice broken, 
her hands were clasped so tightly that the red marks of the 
pressure were visible. 

He turned and looked at her. Her face told even more 
than her words. All his anger faded ; it seemed to him 
then that he was the most unfortunate man in the whole 
world. He took her in his arms, and kissed her sadly. 
"I yield, child," he said. "Think of it no more. But, 
oh, Anne, Anne, if it could but have been ! Why does he 
have everything, and I nothing?" He bowed his head 



ANNE. . 477 

over hers as it lay on his breast, and stood a moment; 
then he released her, went to the door, and breathed the 
outside air in silence. 

Closing- it, he turned and came toward her again, and 
in quite another tone said, ' ' Are you ready ? If you are, 
we will go to the city, and start as soon as possible for 
Multomah." 



Chapter XXXIV. 

" Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheeks flame:. . . .the blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up." — Tennyson. 

Gregory Dexter kept his word. He telegraphed to 
Miss Teller and to Miss Teller's lawyers. He thought of 
everything, even recalling to Anne's mind that she ought 
to write to her pupils and to the leader of the choir, tell- 
ing- them that she expected to be absent from the city 
for several days. "It would be best to resign all the 
places at once," he said. "After this is over, they can 
easily come back to you if they wish to do so." 

"It may make a difference, then, in my position ?" said 
Anne. 

' ' It will make the difference that you will no longer 
be an unknown personage," he answered, briefly. 

His dispatch had produced a profound sensation of 
wonder in the mind of Miss Teller, and excitement in the 
minds of Miss Teller's lawyers. Helen's aunt, so far, had 
not been able to form a conjecture as to the identity of 
the mysterious young" girl who had visited her niece, and 
borne part in that remarkable conversation ; Bagshot's 
description brought no image before her mind. The ac- 
quaintance with Anne Douglas, the school-girl at Madame 
Moreau's, was such a short, unimportant, and now dis^ 



478 ANNE. 

tant episode in the brilliant, crowded life of her niece that 
she had forgotten it, or at least never thought of it in this 
connection. She had never heard Helen call Anne 
"Crystal."' Her imagination was fixed upon a girl of 
the lower class, beautiful, and perhaps in her way even 
respectable — "one of those fancies which," she acknow- 
ledged, "gentlemen sometimes have," the tears gather- 
ing in her pale eyes as she spoke, so repugnant was the 
idea to her, although she tried to accept it for Heathcote's 
sake. But how could Helen have known a girl of this 
sort ? Was this, too, one of those concealed trials which 
wives of "men of the world" were obliged to endure ? 

Neither did Isabel or Rachel think of Anne. To them 
she had been but a school-girl, and they had not seen her 
or heard of her since that summer at Caryl's; she had 
passed out of their remembrance as entirely as out of 
their vision. Their idea of Helen's unknown visitor was 
similar to that which occupied the mind of Miss Teller. 
And in their hearts they had speculated upon the possi- 
bility of using money with such a person, inducing her to 
come forward, name herself, and deny Bagshot's testi- 
mony point-blank, or at least the dangerous portions of it. 
It could not matter much to a girl of that sort what she 
had to say, provided she were well paid for it. 

Miss Teller and the lawyers were waiting to receive 
Anne, when, late in the evening, she arrived, accompa- 
nied by Mr. Dexter. The lawyers had to give way first 
to Miss Teller. 

"Oh, Anne, dear child!" she cried, embracing the 
young girl warmly ; "I never dreamed it was you. And 
you have come all this way to help us ! I do not in the 
least understand how; but never mind — never mind. 
God bless you!" She sobbed as she spoke. Then seeing 
Dexter, who was standing at some distance, she called him 
to her, and blessed him also. He received her greeting in 
silence. He had brought Anne, but he was in no mood 
to appreciate benedictions. 

And now the lawyers stepped forward, arranging 
chairs at the table in a suggestive way, opening papers, 
and consulting note-books. Anne looked toward Dexter 



A^NE. 479 

for directions ; his eyes told her to seat herself in one of the 
arm-chairs. He then withdrew to another part of the 
large room, and Miss Teller, having vainly endeavored 
to heckon liim to her side, so that he might be within reach 
of her tearful whispers and sympathy-seeking finger, re- 
signed herself to excited listening and silence. 

When Anne Douglas appeared on the witness-stand in 
the Heath cote murder trial, a buzz of curiosity and sur- 
prise ran round the crowded court-room. 

' ' A young girl !" was the first whisper. Then, ' ' Pretty, 
rather," from the women, and " Beautiful V from the men. 

Isabel grasped Rachel's arm. ' ' Is that Anne Douglas ?" 
she said, in a wonder-struck voice. "You remember 
her — the school-girl. Miss Vanhorn's niece, who was at 
Caryl's that summer ? Helen always liked her ; and 
Ward Heathcote used to talk to her now and then, al- 
though Mr. Dexter paid her more real attention." 

"I remember her," said Rachel, coldly; "but I do not 
recollect the other circumstances you mention." 

" It is Anne," continued Isabel, too much absorbed to 
notice Rachel's manner. "But older, and a thousand 
times handsomer. Rachel, that girl is beautiful !" 

Anne's eyes were do\Nnicast. She feared to see Heath- 
cote, and she did not even know in what part of the 
room he was placed. She remained thus while she was 
identified by Bagshot and Simpson, while she gave her 
name, and went through the preliminary forms ; when at 
last she did raise her eyes, she looked only at the lawyers 
who addressed her. 

And now the ordeal opened. All, or almost all, of that 
which she had told Gregory Dexter she was now required 
to repeat here, before this crowded, listening court-room, 
this sea of faces, these watching lawyers, the judge, and 
the dreaded jury. She had never been in a court-room 
before. For one moment, when she first looked up, her 
courage failed, and those w^ho were w^atching her saw 
that it had failed. Then toward whom did her frighten- 
ed glance turn as if for aid ? 

"Rachel, it is Gregory Dexter," said Isabel, again 
grasping her companion's arm excitedly. 



i80 ANNE. 

*'Pray, Isabel, be more quiet," answered Mrs. Bannert. 
But ber own heart throbbed quickly for a moment as she 
recognized the man who had told her what he thought of 
her plainly in crude and plebeian Saxon phraseology. 

Anne was now speaking. Bagshot's testimony was 
read to her phrase by jDhrase. Phrase by phrase she cor- 
roborated its truthfulness, but added Avhat had preceded 
and followed. In this manner all the overheard sen- 
tences were repeated amid close attention, the interest in- 
creasing with every word. 

But still it was evident that all were waiting ; the at- 
titude was plainly one of alert expectancy. 

For what were they waiting ? For the confession of 
love, to whose " extraordinary words" the New York 
journals had called attention. 

At last it came. An old lawyer read the sentences 
aloud, slowly, markedly; while the fall of a feather could 
have been heard in the crowded room, and all eyes were 
fastened pitilessly upon the defenseless girl ; for she seem- 
ed at that moment utterly forsaken and defenseless. 

" ' You say that I can not love,' " slowly read the law- 
yer, in his clear, dry voice ; '^ ' that it is not in my nature. 
You know nothing about it. You have thought me a 
child; I am a child no longer. I love Ward Heathcote, 
your husband, wdth my whole heart. It was a delight to 
me simply to be near him, to hear his voice. When he 
spoke my name, all my being went toward him. I loved 
him — loved him — so deeply that everything else on the face 
of the earth is as nothing to me compared with it. I 
would have been gladly your servant, yes, yours, only to 
be in the same house with him, though I were of no 
more account in his eyes than the dog on the mat before 
his door.'" 

There was an instant of dead silence after these last pas- 
sionate words had fallen strangely from the old lawyer's 
thin lips. Then, "Are these your words?" he asked. 

"They are," replied Anne. 

In that supreme moment her glance, vaguely turned 
away from the questioner, met the direct gaze of the pris- 
oner. Until now she had not seen him. It was but an 



ANNE. 481 

instant that their eyes held each other, but in that instant 
the thronged court-room faded from her sight, and her 
face, which, while the lawyer read, had been white and 
still as marble, was now, though still colorless, so transfig- 
ured, so uplifted, so beautiful in its pure sacrifice, that 
men leaned forward to see her more closely, to print, as it 
were, that exquisite image upon their memories forever. 

Then the crowd took its breath again audibly ; the sight 
was over. Anne had sunk down and covered her face 
with her hands, and Miss Teller, much agitated, was send- 
ing her a glass of water. 

Even the law is human sometimes, and there was now 
a short delay. 

So far, while the testimony of the new witness had 
been dramatic, and in its interest absorbing, it had not 
proved much, or shaken to any great extent the theory 
of the prosecution. On the contrary, more than ever now 
were people inclined to believe that this lovely young 
girl was in reality the wife's rival. Men whispered to 
each other, significantly, ' ' Heathcote knew Avliat he was 
about. That is the most beautiful girl I ever saw in my 
life; and notlimg can alter that.'' 

But now the tide turned. The examination proceeded, 
and the two unfinished sentences which Bagshot had re- 
peated were read. Anne corrected them. 

" ' You can not conquer hate,' " read the lawyer. 

"Mrs, Heathcote did not say that," began Anne; but 
her voice was still tremulous, and she paused a moment in 
order to control it. 

"We wish to remark here," said one of Miss Teller's 
lawyers, ' ' that while the witness named Minerva Bagshot 
is possessed of an extraordinary memory, and while she 
has also repeated what she overheard with a correctness 
and honesty which are indeed remarkable in a person 
who would deliberately ojDen a door and listen, in this in- 
stance her careful and conscientious eai^ will be found to 
have been mistaken." 

He was not allowed to say more. But as he had said 
all he wished to say, he bore his enforced silence with 
equanimit3^ 

31 



482 ANNE. 

' ' Mrs. Heathcote wished me to come and live with her, " 
continued Anne. ' ' She said, not what Mrs. Bagshot has 
reported, but, 'You can not conquer /a^e.' And then she 
added, ' We two must be together, x\nne ; we are bound 
by a tie which can not be severed, even though we may 
wish it. You must bear with me, and I must suffer you. 
It is our fate.'" 

This produced an effect ; it directly contradicted the im- 
pression made by Bagshot's phrase, namely, that the two 
women had parted in anger and hate, the wife especially 
being in a mood of desperation. True, it was but Anne's 
word against Bagshot's, and the strange tendency toward 
believing the worst, which is often seen at criminal trials, 
inclined most minds toward the elder woman's story. 
Still, the lawyers for the defense were hopeful. 

The last sentence, or portion of a sentence, was now 
read: " ' If he had lived, one of us must have died.' " 

It had been decided that Anne should here give all that 
Helen had said, without omission, as she had given it to 
Dexter. 

"Yes," she answered; "Mrs. Heathcote used those 
words. But it was in the following connection. When 
we had said good-by, and I had promised to come again 
after the funeral, she went with me toward the door. 
'If he had lived,' she said, 'one of us must have died.' 
Then she paused an instant, and her voice sank. ' Changed 
or died,' she added. ' And as we are not the kind of wo- 
men who change, it would have ended in the wearing out 
of the life of one of us — the one who loved the most. 
And people would have called it by some other name, and 
that would have been the end. But now it is he who has 
been taken, and — oh ! I can not bear it — I can not, can 
not bear it!'" 

She repeated the^e words of Helen's with such realistic 
power that tears came to many eyes. Rachel Bannert for 
the first time veiled her face. All the feeling in her, such 
as it was, was concentrated upon Heathcote, and Helen's 
bitter cry of grief, repeated by Anne, had been the secret 
cry of her own heart every minute since danger first 
menaced him. 



ANNE. 483 

Anne's words had produced a sensation; still, they 
were but her unsupported words. 

But now something else was brought forward ; proof 
which, so far as it went, at least, was tangible. Anne was 
testifying that, before she went away, Helen had taken 
from her own neck a locket and given it to her as a 
token of renewed aif ection ; and the locket was produced. 
The defense would prove by Bagshot herself that this lock- 
et on its chain was round her mistress's neck on the morn- 
ing of that day, and Mrs. Heathcote must therefore have 
removed it herself and given it to the present witness, 
since the latter could hardly have taken it from her by 
force without being overheard, the door being so very 
conveniently ajar. 

And now the next proof was produced, the hurried note 
written to Anne by Helen, after the tidings of her hus- 
band's safety had been received. After the writing had 
been identified as Helen's, the note was read. 

"Dear Anne, — Ward is safe. It was a mistake. I 
have just received a dispatch. He is wounded, but not 
dangerously, and I write this on my way to the train, for 
I am going to him ; that is, if I can get through. All is 
different now. I trust you. But I love him too much 
not to try and make him love me the most, if I possi- 
bly can. Helen." 

This was evidence clear and decided. It was no longer 
Anne's word, but Helen's own. Whatever else the list- 
eners continued to believe, they must give up the idea 
that the wife and this young girl had parted in anger and 
hate ; for if the locket as proof could be evaded, the note 
could not. 

But this was not all. An excitement more marked 
than any save that produced when Anne acknowledged 
the confession arose in the court-room when the lawyers 
for the defense announced that they would now bring for- 
ward a second letter — a letter written by Mrs. Heathcote 
to the witness in the inn at Timloesville on the evening 
of her death — her last letter, what might be called her 



484 ANNE. 

last utterance on earth. It had been shown that Mrs. 
Heathcote was seen writing; it would be proved that a 
letter was given to a colored lad employed in the hotel 
soon after Captain Heathcote left the room, and that this 
lad ran across the street to the post-office and dropped it 
into the mail-box. Not being able to read, he had not 
made out the address. 

When the handwriting of this letter also had been 
identified, it was, amid eager attention, read aloud. The 
feeling was as if the dead wife herself were speaking to 
them from the grave. 

" TiMLOESviLLE, Juiie 10, half post 8 p.m. 

"Dear Anne, — I sent you a few lines from New York, 
writte]! on my way to the train, but now that I have time, 
I feel that something more is due to you. I found Ward 
at a little hospital, his right arm injured, but not serious- 
ly. He will not be able to use it readily for some time ; it 
is in a sling. But he is so much better that they have al- 
lowed us to start homeward. We are travelling slowly 
— more, however, on my account than his. I long to havG 
the journey over. 

"Dear Anne, I have thought over all our conversation 
— all that you told me, all that I replied. I am so inex- 
pressibly happy to-night, as I sit here writing, that I can 
and will do you justice, and tell all the truth — the part 
that I have hitherto withheld. And that is, Anne, that 
your influence over him was for good, and that your pain 
and effort have not been thrown away. You asked him 
to bear his part in life bravely, and he has borne it; you 
asked him to come back to me, and he did come back. If 
you were any other woman on earth, I would never con- 
fess this — confess that I owe to you my happiness of last 
winter, when he changed, even in his letters, to greater 
kindness ; confess that it was your influence which made 
him, when he came home later, so much more watchful 
and gentle in his care of, his manner toward, me. I no- 
ticed the change on the first instant, the first letter, and it 
made my heart bound. If it had been possible, I should 
have gone to him then, but it was not. He had rejoined 



ANNE. 485 

his regiment, and I could only watch for his letters like 
a girl of sixteen. When he did come home, I counted 
every hour of that short visit as so much happiness greater 
than I had ever known before. For I had always loved 
him, and noic he loved me. 

" Do not contradict me ; he does love me. At least he 
is so dear to me, and so kind and tender, that I do not 
loiow whether he does or not, but am content. You are 
a better, nobler woman ; yet I have the happiness. 

" He does not know that I have seen you, and I shall 
never tell him. He does not know that / know what an 
effort he has made. But every kind act and tone goes 
to my heart. For I did deceive him, Anne ; and if it had 
not been for that deception, probably he would not now 
be my husband — he would be free. 

"Yet good has come out of evil this time, perhaps on 
account of my deep love. No wife was ever so thankful- 
ly happy as I am to-night, and on my knees I have thank- 
ed my Creator for giving me that which makes my life 
one long joy. 

"He has come in, and is sitting opx)osite, reading. He 
does not know to whom I am writing — does not dream 
what I am saying. And he must never know : I can not 
rise to that. 

"No, Anne, we must not meet, at least for the present. 
It is better so, and you yourself will feel that it is. But 
when I reach home I will write again, and the?! you will 
answer. 

" Always, with warm love, your friend, Helen." 

During the reading of this letter, the prisoner for the 
first time sat with his head bowed, his face shaded by his 
hand. Miss Teller's sobs could be heard. Anne, too, 
broke down, and wept silently. 

"When I reach home I will write again, and then you 
will answer. " Helen had reached home, and Anne — had 
answered. 



486 ANNE. 



Chapter XXXV. 

"The cold neutrality of an impartial judge." — Burke. 

The jury were out. 

They had been out four hours, but the crowd in the 
closely packed court-room still kept its ranks unbroken, 
and even seemed to grow more dense; for if, here and 
there, one person went away, two from the waiting 
throng of those in the halls and about the doors imme- 
diately pressed their way in to take the vacant place. 
The long warm summer day was drawing toward its close. 
The tired people fanned themselves, but would not go, 
because it was rumored that a decision was near. 

Outside, the fair green farming country, which came 
up almost to the doors, stretched away peacefully in the 
twilight, shading into the grays of evening down the val- 
ley, and at the bases of the hills. The fields were falling 
asleep; eight o'clock sounding from a distant church bell 
seemed like a curfew and good-night. 

If one had had time to think of it, the picture of the 
crowded court-room, rising in that peaceful landscape, 
was a strange one. But no one had time to think of it. 
Lights had been brought in. The summer beetles, at- 
tracted by them, flew in through the oj^en windows, 
knocked themselves against the wall, fell to the fk)or, and 
then slowly took wing again to repeat the process. With 
the coming of the lights the crowd stirred a little, looked 
about, and then settled itself anew. The prisoner's 
chances were canvassed again, and for the hundredth 
time. The testimony of Anne Douglas had destroyed the 
theory which had seemed to fill out so well the missing 
parts of the story ; it had proved that the supposed rival 
was a friend of the wife's, and that the wife loved her; 
it had proved that Mrs. Heathcote was devoted to her 
husband, and happy with him, up to the last hour of her 
life. This was much. But the circumstantial evidence 



ANNE. 487 

regarding the movements of the prisoner at Timloesville 
remained unchanged ; he was still confronted by the fact 
of his having been seen on that outside stairway, by the 
other significant details, and by the -print of that left hand. 

During this evening waiting, the city papers had come, 
were brought in, and read. One of them contained some 
paragraphs upon a point which, in the rapid succession 
of events that followed each other in the case, ha,d been 
partially overlooked — a point which the country readers 
cast aside as unimportant, but which wakened in the minds 
of the city people present the remembrance that they had 
needed the admonition. 

' ' But if this conversation (now given in full) was re- 
markable," wi'ote the editor far away in New York, " it 
should not be forgotten that the circumstances were re- 
markable as well. While reading it one should keep 
clearly in mind the fact that the subject of it, namely, 
Captain Heathcote, was, in the belief of both the speak- 
ers, dead. Had it not been for this belief of theirs, these 
words would never have been uttered. He was gone 
from earth forever — killed suddenly in battle. Such a 
death brings the deepest feelings of the heart to the surface. 
Such a death wrings out avowals which otherwise would 
never be made. Words can be spoken over a coffin — 
where all is ended — which could never be spoken else- 
where. Death brought together these two women, who 
seem to have loved each other through and in spite of all. 
One has gone. And now the menacing shadow of a far 
worse death has forced the other to come forward, and go 
through a cruel ordeal, an ordeal which was, however, turn- 
ed into a triumph by the instant admiration which all 
rightly minded persons gave to the pure, noble bravery 
which thus saved a life. For although the verdict has 
not yet been given, the general opinion is that this new 
testimony turned the scale, and that the accused man 
will be acquitted." 

But this prophecy was not fulfilled. 

Five hours of waiting. Six hours. And now there 
came a stir. The jury were returning; they had entered; 
they were in their places. Rachel Bannert bent her face 



488 ANNE. 

behind her open fan, that people should not see how white 
it was. Miss Teller involuntarily rose. But as many 
had also risen in the crowded room, which was not 
brightly lighted save round the lawyers' tables, they pass- 
ed unnoticed. The accused looked straight into the faces 
of the jurors. He was quite calm; this part seemed far 
less trying to him than that which had gone before. 

And then it was told : they had neither convicted nor 
acquitted him. They had disagreed. 

Anne Douglas was not present. She was sitting alone 
in an unlighted house on the other side of the little coun- 
try square. Some one walking up and down there, under 
the maples, had noticed, or rather divined, a figure at the 
open window behind the muslin curtains of the dark room ; 
he knew that this figure was looking at the lights from 
the court-room oi^posite, visible through the trees. 

This man under the maples had no more intention of 
losing the final moment than the most persistent country- 
man there. But being in the habit of using his money, 
now that he had it, rather than himself, he had posted two 
sentinels, sharp-eyed boys whom he had himself selected, 
one in an upper window of the court-room on the sill, 
the other outside on the sloping roof of a one-story build- 
ing which touched it. The boy in the window was to 
keep watch ; the boy on the roof was to drop to the ground 
at the first signal from the sill, and run. By means of 
this human telegraph, its designer under the maples in- 
tended to reach the window himself, through the little 
house whose door stood open (its mistress having already 
been paid for the right of way), in time to hear and see 
the whole. This intention was carried out — as his inten- 
tions generally were. The instant the verdict, or rather 
the want of verdict, was announced, he left the window, 
hastened down through the little house, and crossed the 
square. The people would be slow in leaving the court- 
room, the stairway w^as narrow, the crowd dense; the 
square was empty as he passed through it, went up the 
steps of the house occupied by Miss Teller, crossed the 
balcony, and stopped at the open window. 
"Anne ?" he said. 



ANNE. 489 

A figure stirred within. 

"They have disagreed. The case will now go over to 
the November term, when there will be a new trial." 

He could see that she covered her face with her hands. 
But she did not speak. 

' ' It was your testimony that turned the scale, ' ' he added. 

After a moment, as she still remained silent, "I am go- 
ing away to-night,"' he went on; " that is, unless there is 
something I can do for you. Will you tell me your 
plans ?" 

"Yes, always," she answered, speaking low from the 
darkness. ' ' Everything concern ing me you may always 
know, if you care to know. But so far I have no plan." 

' ' I leave you with Miss Teller ; that is safety. Miss 
Teller claims the privilege now of having you with her 
always." 

" I shall not stay long." 

"You will write to me ?" 

"Yes." 

People were now entering the square from the other 
side. The window-sill was between them; he took her 
hands, drew her forward from the shadow, and looked at 
her in the dim light from the street lamp. 

" It is my last look, Anne," he said, sadly. 

"It need not be." 

"Yes; you have chosen. You are sure that there is 
nothing more that I can do ?" 

"There is one thing." 

"What is it?" 

' ' Believe him innocent. Believe it, not for my sake, 
but for your own." 

" If I try, it will be for yours. Good-by." 

He left her, and an hour later was on his way back to 
his post at the capital of his State. He was needed there ; 
an accumulation of responsibilities awaited him. For 
that State owed the excellence of its war record, its finely 
equipped regiments, well-supplied hospitals, and prompt 
efficiency in all departments of public business through- 
out those four years, principally to the brain and force of 
one man — Gregory Dexter. 



490 ANNE. 



Chapter XXXVI. 

*' I have no other than a woman's reason : 
I think him so because I think him so." 

— Shakspeare. 

Summer was at its height. Miiltomah had returned to 
its rural quietude ; the farmers were busy afield, the court- 
room was closed, the crowd gone. The interest in the 
Heathcote case, and the interest in Ward Heathcote, re- 
mained as great as ever in the small circle of which he 
and Helen had formed part ; but nothing more could hap- 
pen until November, and as, in the mean time, the sum- 
mer was before them, they had found a diversion of 
thought in discovering an island off the coast of Maine, 
and betaking themselves thither, leaving to mistaken 
followers the belief that Caryl's still remained an exclu- 
sive and fashionable resort. Beyond this small circle, 
the attention of the nation at large was absorbed in a 
far greater story — the story of the Seven Days round 
Richmond. 

Word had come to Anne from the northern island that 
the little boy, whose failing health had for so many 
montlis engrossed all Miss Lois's time and care, had 
closed his tired eyes upon this world's pain forever. He 
would no longer need the little crutch, which they had 
both grieved to think must always be his support; and 
Miss Lois coming home to the silent church-house after 
the burial in the little cemetery on the height, and seeing 
it there in its corner, had burst into bitter tears. For 
the child, in his helplessness and suffering, had grown 
into her very heart. But now Anne needed her — that 
other child whom she had loved so long and so well. 
And so, after that one fit of weeping, she covered her 
grief from sight, put a weight of silent remembrance upon 
it, and witli much energy journeyed southward. 

For Anne, Miss Lois, and Miss Teller were now linked 



AXXE. 491 

together b}^ a purpose, a feminine purpose, founded upon 
faith only, and with outlines vague, yet one none the 
less to be carried out : to go to Timloesville or its neigh- 
borhood, and search for the murderer there. 

Miss Teller, who had found occupation in various small 
schemes for additions to Heathcote's comfort during the 
summer, rose to excitement when the new idea was pre- 
sented to her. 

"We must have advice about it," she began; "we 
must consult — " Then seeing in the young face, upon 
whose expressions she had already come to rely, a non- 
agreement, she paused. 

"The best skill of detectives has already been used," 
said Anne ; ' ' they followed a track, worked from a be- 
ginning. We should follow no track, and accept no be- 
ginning, save the immovable certainty that he was in- 
nocent." She was silent a moment; then with a sigh 
which was a sad, yet not a hopeless, one, "Dear Miss 
Teller," she added, "it is said that women divine a truth 
sometimes by intuition, and against all i)robability. It 
is to this instinct — if such there be — that we must trust 
now." 

Miss Teller studied these suggestions with respect ; but 
they seemed large and indistinct. In spite of herself her 
mind reverted to certain articles of furniture wiiich she 
had looked at the day before, furniture which was to make 
his narrow room more comfortable. But she caught her- 
self in these wanderings, brought back her straying 
thoughts promptly, and fastened them to the main sub- 
ject with a question — like a pin. 

" But how could I go to Timloesville at present, when 
I have so much planned out to do here? Oh, Anne, I 
could not leave him here, shut up in that dreary place," 

"It seems to me safer that you should not go," re- 
plied the girl; "it might be noticed, especially as it is 
known that you took this house for the summer. But I 
could go. And there is Miss Lois. She is free now, and 
the ch urch-house must be very lonely. " The tears sprang 
again as she thought of Andre, the last of the little black- 
eyed children who had been so dear. 



492 ANNE. 

They talked over the plan. No man being there to 
weigh it Avith a cooler masculine judgment, it seemed to 
them a richly promising one. Anne was imaginative, 
and Miss Teller reflected Anne. They both felt, how- 
ever, that its accomplishment depended upon Miss Lois. 
But Anne's confidence in Miss Lois was great. 

' ' I know of no one for whom I have a deeper respect 
than for that remarkable woman," said Miss Teller, rev- 
erentially. "It w^ill be a great gratification to see her." 

"But it would be best, I think, that she should not 
come here," replied Anne. "I should bid you good-by, 
and go away ; every one would see me go. Then in New 
York I could meet Miss Lois, and w^e could go together to 
Timloesville by another route. At Timloesville nobody 
would know Miss Lois, and I should keep myself in a 
measure concealed ; there were only a few persons from 
Timloesville at the trial, and I think I could evade them." 

" I should have liked much to meet Miss Hinsdale," 
said Miss Margaretta, in a tone of regret. ' ' But you 
know best." 

' ' Oh, no, no, " said Anne, letting her arms fall in sudden 
despondency. ' ' I sometimes think that I know nothing, 
and w^orse than nothing ! Moments come when I would 
give years of my life for one hour, only one, of trusting- 
reliance upon some one wdser, stronger, than I — who 
w^ould tell me what I ought to do." 

But this cry of the young heart (brave, but yet so young) 
distressed Miss Margaretta. If the pilot should lose cour- 
age, what would become of the passengers ? She felt her- 
self looking into chaos. 

Anne saw this. And controlled herself again. 

" When should you start ?" said the elder lady, relieved, 
and bringing forward a date. Miss Margaretta always 
found great support in dates. 

"I can not tell yet. We must first hear from Miss 
Lois." 

"I will w^rite to her myself," said Miss Margaretta, 
putting on her spectacles and setting to work at once. It 
was a relief to be engaged upon something tangible. 

And write she did. The pages she sent to Miss Lois, 



ANNE. 493 

and tlie pages with which Miss Lois replied were many, 
eloquent, and underlined. Before the correspondence 
was ended they had scientifically discovered, convicted, 
and hanged the murderer, and religiously buried him. 

Miss Lois was the most devoted partisan the accused 
man had gained. She was pleader, audience, public opin- 
ion, detective, judge, and final clergyman, in one. She 
had never seen Heathcote. That made no difference. 
She was sure he was a concentration of virtue, and the 
victim not of circumstances (that was far too mild), but 
of a "plot" (she wanted to say "popish," but was re- 
strained by her regard for Pere Michaux). 

Miss Teller saw Heathcote daily. So far, she had not 
felt it necessary that Anne should accompany her. But 
shortly before the time fixed for the young girl's depar- 
ture she was seized with the idea that it was Anne's duty 
to see him once. For perhaps he could tell her some- 
thing which would be of use at Timloesville. 

"I would rather not; it is not necessary," replied 
Anne. "You can tell me." 

"You should not think of yourself; in such cases our- 
selves are nothing," said Miss Teller. " The sheriff and 
the persons in charge under him are possessed of excellent 
dispositions, as I have had occasion to prove; no one 
need know of your visit, and I should of course accom- 
pany you." 

Anne heard her in silence. She was asking herself 
whether this gentle lady had lost all memory of her own 
youth, and whether that youth had held no feelings which 
would make her comprehend the depth of that which she 
was asking now. 

But Miss Teller was not thinking of her youth, or of 
herself, or of Anne. She had but one thought, one mo- 
tive — Helen's husband, and how to save him; all the rest 
seemed to her unimportant. She had in fact forgotten it. 
"I do not see how you can hesitate," she said, the tears 
suffusing her light eyes, " when it is for our dear Helen's 
sake." 

" Yes," replied Anne; "but Helen is dead. How can 
■we know — how can we be sure — what she would wish ?" 



494 ANNE. 

She seemed to be speaking to herself. She rose, walked 
to the window, and stood there looking out. 

' ' Slie would wish to have him saved, would she not ?" 
answered Miss Teller. ' ' I consider it quite necessary 
that you should see him before you go. For you could 
not depend upon my report of what he says. It has, I am 
sorry to say, been represented to me more than once that 
I have a tendency to forget what has been variously men- 
tioned as the knob, the point, the gist of a thing." 

Anne did not turn. 

Miss Teller noted this obstinacy with surprise. 

"It is mysterious to me that after the great ordeal of 
that trial, Anne, you should demur over such a simj^le 
thing as this," she said, gently. 

But to Anne the sea of faces in the court-room seemed 
now less difficult than that quiet cell with its one occu- 
pant. Then she asked herself whether this were not an 
unworthy feeling, a weak one ? One to be i)ut down at 
once, and with a strong hand. She yielded. The visit 
was appointed for the next day. 

The county jail with its stone hall; a locked door. 
They were entering ; the jailer retired. 

The prisoner rose to receive them ; he knew that they 
were coming, and was prepared. Miss Teller kissed him ; 
he brought forward his two chairs. Then turning to 
Anne, he said, "It is kind of you to come;" and for a 
moment they looked at each other. 

It was as if they had met in another world, in a far 
gray land beyond all human error and human dread. 
Anne felt this suddenly; if not like a chill, it was like 
the touch of an all-enveloping sadness, which would not 
pass away. Her fear left her ; it seemed to her then that 
it would never come back. 

As she looked at him she saw that he was greatly 
changed; her one glance in the court-room had not told 
her how greatly. Part of it was due doubtless to the ef- 
fects of his wound, to the unaccustomed confinement in 
the heats of a lowland summer; his face, though still 
bronzed, was thin, his clothes hung loosely from his 
broad shoulders. But the marked alteration was in his 



ANNE. 495 

expression. This was so Avidely different from that of 
the brown-eyed lounger of Caryl's, that it seemed an- 
other man who was standing there, and not the same. 
Heathcote's eyes were still brown ; but their look was so 
changed that Gregory Dexter would never have occasion 
to find fault with it again. His half -indolent carelessness 
had given place to a stern reticence ; his indifference, to 
a measured self-control. And Anne knew, as though a 
prophetic vision were passing, that he would carry that 
changed face always, to his life's end. 

Miss Teller had related to him their plan, their womans' 
plan. He was strongly, unyieldingly, opposed to it. 
Miss Teller came home every day, won over to his view, 
and then as regularly changed her mind, in talking with 
Anne, and went back — to be converted over again. But 
he knew that Anne had persisted. He knew that he was 
now expected to search his memory, and see if he could 
not find there something new. Miss Teller, with a touch- 
ing eagerness to be of use and business-like, arranged pen, 
paper, and ink upon the table, and sat down to take notes. 
She was still a majestic personage, in spite of her grief 
and anxiety; her height, profile, and flowing draperies 
were as imposing as ever. But in other ways she had 
grown suddenly old ; her light complexion was now over- 
spread with a net-work of fine small wrinkles, the last 
faint blonde of her hair was silvered, and in her cheeks 
and about her mouth there was a pathetic alteration, the 
final predominance of old age, and its ineffective helpless- 
ness over her own mild personality. 

But while they waited, he found that he could not 
speak. When he saw them sitting there in their mourn- 
ing garb for Helen, when he felt that Anne too was 
within the circle of this grief and danger and pain, Anne, 
in all her pure fair youth and trust and courage, some- 
thing rose in his throat and stopped utterance. All the 
past and his own j^art in it unrolled itself before him 
like a judgment; all the present, and her brave effort for 
him ; the future, near and dark. For Heathcote, like 
Dexter, believed that the chances were adverse ; and even 
should lie escape conviction, he believed that the cloud 



496 ANNE. 

upon him would never be cleared away entirely, but that 
it would rest like a pall over the remainder of his life. 
At that moment, in his suffering, he felt that uncleared 
acquittal, conviction, the worst that could come to him, 
he could bear without a murmur were it only possible to 
separate Anne — Anne both in the past and present — from 
his own dark lot. He rose suddenly from the bench 
where he had seated himself, turned his back to them, 
went to his little grated window, and stood there looking 
out. 

Miss Teller followed him, and laid her hand on his 
shoulder. "Dear Ward," she said, "I do not wonder 
that you are overcome." And she took out her hand- 
kerchief. 

He mastered himself and came back to the table. Miss 
Teller, who, having once begun, was unable to stop so 
quickly, remained where she was. Anne, to break the 
painful pause, began to ask her written questions from the 
slip of paper she had brought. 

"Can you recall anything concerning the man who 
came by and spoke to you while you were bathing V she 
said, looking at him gravely. 

" No. I could not see him; it was very dark." 

" What did he say ?" 

"He asked if the water was cold." 

"How did he say it ?" 

"Simply, ' Is the water cold V " 

' ' Was there any foreign accent or tone, any peculi- 
arity of pronunciation or trace of dialect, no matter how 
slight, in his voice or utterance ?" 

" I do not recall any. Stay, he may have given some- 
thing of the sound of g to the word — said 'gold,' instead 
of 'cold.' But the variation was scarcely noticeable. 
Country people talk in all sorts of ways." 

Miss Teller hurriedly returned to her chair, after wip- 
ing her ej^es, \vrote down "gold" and "cold" in large let- 
ters on her sheet of paper, and surveyed them critically. 

"Is there nothing else you can think of?" pursued 
Anne. 

"No. Why do you dwell upon him ?" 



ANNE. 497 

*' Because he is the man." 

"Oh, Anne, is he? — is he?" cried Miss Teller, with as 
much excitement as though Anne had proved it. 

"There is no probability. They have not even been 
able to find him," said Heathcote. 

"Of course it is only my feeling," said the girl. 

"But what Anne feels is no child's play," commented 
Miss Teller* 

This remark, made in nervousness and without much 
meaning, seemed to touch Heathcote ; he turned to the 
window again. 

' ' Will you please describe to me exactly what you did 
from the time you left the inn to take the first walk until 
you came back after the river-bath ?" continued Anne. 

He repeated his account of the evening's events as he 
had first given it, with hardly the variation of a word. 

' ' Are you sure that you took two towels ?• Might it 
not be possible that you took only one ? For then the 
second, found at the end of the meadow trail, might have 
been taken by the murderer." 

"No ; I took two. I remember it because I put first 
one in my pocket, and then, with some difficulty, the oth- 
er, and I spoke to Helen laughingly about my left-hand- 
ed awkwardness." It was the first time he had spoken 
his wife's name, and his voice was very grave and sweet 
as he pronounced it. 

Poor Miss Teller broke down again. And Anne began 
to see her little paper of questions through a blur. But 
the look of Heathcote's face saved her. Why should he 
have anything more to bear ? She went on quickly with 
her inquiry. 

"Was there much money in the purse?" 

' ' I think not. She gave me almost all she had brought 
with her as soon as we met." 

" Is it a large river ?" 

"Rather deep; in breadth only a mill-stream." 

Then there was a silence. It seemed as if they all felt 
how little there was to work with, to hope for. 

"Will you let Miss Teller draw on a sheet of paper 
tlie outline of your left hand ?" continued Anne. 

32 



498 ANNE. 

He obeyed without comment. 

"Now please j^lace your hand in this position, and let 
her draw the fing-er-tips." As she spoke, she extended 
her own left hand, with the finger-tips touching the ta- 
ble, as if she was going to grasp something which lay un- 
derneath. 

But Heathcote drew back. A flush rose in his cheeks. 
"I will have nothing to do with it," he said. 

"Oh, Ward, when Anne asks you ?" said Miss Teller, in 
distress. 

"J do not wish her to go to Timloesville," he said, 
with emphasis; "I have been utterly against it from the 
first. It is a plan made without reason, and directly 
against my feelings, my wishes, and my consent. It is 
unnecessary. It will be useless. And, worse than this, 
it may bring her into great trouble. Send as many de- 
tectives as you please, but do not send her. It is the mis- 
fortune of your x^osition and hers that at such a moment 
you have no one to control you, no man, I mean, to 
whose better judgment you would defer. My wishes are 
nothing to you; you override them. You are, in fact, 
taking advantage of my helplessness." 

He spoke to Miss Teller. But Anne, flushing a little 
at his tone, answered him. 

" I can not explain the hope that is in me," she said; 
"but such a hope I certainly have. I will not be impru- 
dent ; Miss Lois shall do everything ; I will be very guard- 
ed. If we are not suspected (and we shall not be ; women 
are clever in such things), where is the danger ? It will 
be but — but spending a few weeks in the country." She 
ended hesitatingly, ineffectively. Then, "To sit still and 
do nothing, to wait — is unendurable!" broke from her in 
a changed tone. " It is useless to oppose me. I shall go. " 

Heathcote did not reply. 

' ' No one is to know of it, dear Ward, save ourselves 
and Miss Hinsdale," said Miss Teller, pleadingly. 

"And Mr. Dexter," added Anne. 

Heathcote now looked at her. ' ' Dexter has done more 
for me than I could have expected," he said. "I never 
knew him well; I fancied, too, that ho did not like me." 




HE OBEYED AVITHOUT COMMENT. 



ANNE. 499 

' ' Oh, there you are quite mistaken, Ward. He is your 
most devoted friend," said Miss Teller. 

But a change in Anne's face had struck Heathcote. 
" He thinks me guilty," he said. 

"Never! never!" cried Miss Teller. "Tell him no, 
Anne. Tell him no." 

But Anne could not, "He said — " she began ; then re- 
membering that Dexter's words, " If I try, it will be for 
yours," were hardly a promise, she stopped. 

"It is of small consequence. Those who could believe 
me guilty may continue to believe it," said Heathcote. 
But his face showed that he felt the sting. 

He had never cared to be liked by all, or even by many ; 
but when the blow fell it had been an overwhelming 
surprise to him that any one, even the dullest farm labor- 
er, should suppose it possible that he. Ward Heathcote, 
could be guilty of such a deed. 

It was the lesson which careless men, such as he had 
been, learn sometimes if brought face to face with the 
direct homely judgment of the plain people of the land. 

"Oh, Anne, how can you have him for your friend? 
And I, who trusted him so!" said Miss Teller, with indig- 
nant grief. 

' ' As Mr. Heathcote has said, it is of small consequence," 
answered Anne, steadily. ' ' Mr. Dexter brought me here, 
in spite of his — his feeling, and that should be more to his 
credit, I think, than as though he had been — one of us. 
And now. Miss Teller, if there is nothing more to learn, I 
should like to go." 

She rose. Heathcote made a motion as if to detain her, 
then his hand fell, and he rose also. 

"I suppose we can stay until Jason Longworthy 
knocks ?" said Miss Margaretta, hesitatingly. 

"I would rather go now, please," said Anne. 

For a slow tremor was taking possession of her; the 
country prison, which had not before had a dangerous 
look, seemed now to be growing dark and cruel ; the iron- 
barred window was like a menace. It seemed to say that 
they might talk; but that the prisoner was theirs. 

Miss Margaretta rose, disappointed but obedient; she 



500 ANNE. 

bade Heatlicote good-by, and said that she would come 
again on the morrow. 

Then he stepped forward. ' ' I shall not see you again, " 
he said to Anne, holding out his hand. He had not of- 
fered to take her hand before. 

She gave him hers, and he held it for a moment. No 
word was spoken; it was a mute farewell. Then she 
passed out, followed by Miss Teller, and the door was 
closed behind them. 

"Why, you had twenty minutes more," said Jason 
Longworthy, the deputy, keeping watch in the hall out- 
side. 



Chapter XXXVII. 



" The fisherman, unassisted by destiny, could not catch a fish in the 
Tigris ; and the fish, without fate, could not have died upon dry land." 
— Saadi. 

Anne met Miss Lois in New York. Miss Lois had never 
been in New York before ; but it would take more than 
New York to confuse Miss Lois. They remained in the 
city for several days in order to rest and arrange their 
plans. There was still much to explain which the letters, 
voluminous as they had been, had not made entirely clear. 

But first they spoke of the child. It was Miss Lois at 
length who turned resolutely from the subject, and took 
up the tangled coil which awaited her. ' ' Begin at the 
beginning and tell every word," she said, sitting erect in 
her chair, her arms folded with tight compactness. If 
Miss Lois could talk, she could also listen. In the present 
case she listened comprehensively, sharply, and under- 
standingly. When all was told — "How different it is 
from the old days when we believed that you and Rast 
would live always with us on the island, and that that 
would be the whole," she said, with a long, sad retrospect- 
ive sigh. Then dismissing the past, "But we must do 
in this disappointing world what is set before us," she 
added, sighing again, but this time in a preparatory way. 
Anew she surv^eyed Anne. "You are much changed, 



Ax^^:. 501 

child," she said. Something of her old spirit returned to 
her. "I wish those fort ladies could see you yiow /" she 
remarked, taking off her spectacles and wiping them with 
a combative air. 

Possessed of Anne's narrative, she now began to ar- 
range their plans in accordance with it, and to fit what she 
considered the necessities of the situation. As a stand- 
point she prepared a history, which, in its completeness, 
would have satisfied even herself as third person, forget- 
ting that the mental organizations of the Timloesville peo- 
ple were jDrobably not so well developed in the direction of 
a conscientious and public-spirited inquiry into the afi'aii'S 
of their neighbors as were those of the meritorious New 
England community where she had spent her youth. In 
this history they were to be aunt and niece, of the same 
name, Avhich, after long cogitation, she decided should be 
Young, because it had "a plain, respectable sound." She 
herself was to be a widow (could it have been possible that, 
for once in her life, she wished to know, even if but remin- 
iscently, how the married state would feel?), and Anne 
was to be her husband's niece. ' ' Which will account 
for the lack of resemblance," she said, fitting all the parts 
of her plan together like those of a puzzle. She had even 
constructed an elaborate legend concerning said husband, 
and its items she enumerated with I'elish. His name, it 
appeared, had been Asher, and he had been something of 
a trial to her, although at the last he had experienced re- 
ligion, and died thoroughly saved. His brother Eleazer, 
Anne's father, had been a very different person, a sort of 
New England David. He had taught in an academy, 
studied for the ministrj^, and died of "a galloping con- 
sumption" — a consolation to all his friends. Miss Lois 
could describe in detail both of these death-beds, and 
repeat the inscriptions on the two tombstones. Her 
own name was Deborah, and Anne's was Ruth. On 
the second day she evolved the additional item that Ruth 
was ' ' woi'n out keeping the accounts of an Asylum for the 
Aged, in Washington — which is the farthest thing I can 
think of from teaching children in New York — and I have 
brought you into the country for your health." 



502 ANNE. 

Anne was dismayed. ' ' I shall certainly make some 
mistake in all this, "she said. 

" Not if you pay attention. And you can always say 
your head aches if you don't want to talk. I am not 
sure but that you had better be threatened with some- 
thing-serious," added Miss Lois, surveying her companion 
consideringly. ' ' It would have to be connected with the 
mind, because, unfortunately, you always look the picture 
of health." 

" Oh, please let me be myself," pleaded Anne. 

' ' Never in the world, " replied Miss Lois. ' ' Ourselves ? 
No indeed. We've got to he conundrums as well as guess 
tliem, Ruth Young." 

They arrived at their destination, not by the train, but in 
the little country stage which came from the south. The 
witnesses from Timloesville present at the trial had been 
persons connected with the hotel. In order that Anne 
should not come under their observation, they took lodg- 
ings at a farm-house at some distance from the village, and 
on the opposite side of the valley. Anne was not to en- 
ter the village ; but of the mead.ow-paths and woods she 
would have free range, as the inhabitants of Timloesville, 
like most country people, had not a high opinion of pedes- 
trian exercise. Anne was not to enter the town at all; 
but Miss Lois was to examine "its every inch." 

The first day passed safely, and the second and third. 
Anne was now sufficiently accustomed to her new name 
not to start when she was addressed, and sufficiently in- 
structed in her "headaches" not to repudiate them when 
inquiries were made ; Miss Lois announced, therefore, that 
the search could begin. She classified the probabilities 
under five heads. 

First. The man must be left-handed. 

Second. He must say "gold" for "cold." 

Third. As Timloesville was a secluded village to which 
few strangers came, and as it had been expressly stated at 
the trial that no strangers were noticed in its vicinity either 
before or after the murder, the deed had evidently been 
committed, not as the prosecution mole-blindedly averred, 
by the one stranger who ivas there, but by no stranger 



ANNE. 503 

at all— by a resident in the village itself or its neighbor- 
hood. 

Fourth. As the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote was 
unexpected, the crime must have been one of impulse: 
there had not been time for a plan. 

Fifth, The motive was robbery: the murder was proba- 
bly a second thought, occasioned, perhaps, by Helen's stir- 
ring. 

Miss Lfois did not waste time. Within a few days she was 
widely known in Timloesville — "the widow Young, from 
Washington, staying at Farmer BlackwelFs, with her 
niece, who is out of health, poor thing, and her aunt so 
anxious about her." The widow was very affable, very 
talkative; she was considered an ahnost excitingly agree- 
able person. But it was strange that she should not 
have heard of their event, their own particular and now 
celebrated crime. Mrs. Strain, wife of J. Strain, Esq., 
felt that this ignorance was lamentable. She therefore 
proposed to the widow that she should in person go to the 
Timloe Hotel, and see with her own eyes "the very 
spot." 

"The effect, Mrs. Young, is curdling," she declared. 

Mrs. Young was willing to be curdled, if Mrs. Strain 
would support her in the experience. On the next after- 
noon, therefore, they went to the Timloe Hotel, and were 
shown over "the very floor" which had been pi'essed by 
the footsteps of the murderer, his beautiful wife, and her 
highly respectable and observing (one might almost say 
providentially observing) maid. The landlord himself, 
Mr. Graub, did not disdain to accompany them. Mr. 
Graub had attended the trial in person, and he had haixl- 
ly ceased since to admire himself for his own x^erspicuous 
cleverness in owning the house where such a very distin- 
guished crime had been committed. There might be 
localities where a like deed would have injured the pa- 
tronage of an inn ; but the neighborhood of Timloesville 
was not one of them. The people slowly took in and ap- 
preciated their event, as an anaconda is said slowly to take 
in and appreciate his dinner ; they digested it at their lei- 
sure. Farmers coming in to town on Saturdays, instead 



504 ANNE. 

of bring-in g- luncheon in a tin pailj as usual, went to the 
expense of dining at the hotel, with their wives and 
daughters, in order to see the room, the blind, and the 
outside stairway. Mr. Graub, in this position of affairs, 
was willing to repeat the tale, even to a non-diner. For 
Mrs. Young was a stranger from Washington, and who 
knew but that Washington itself might be stirred to a 
dining interest in the scene of the tragedy, especially as 
the second trial was still to come ? 

The impression on the blind was displayed ; it was very 
faint, but clearly that of a left hand. 

"And here is the cloth that covered the bureau," con- 
tinued the landlord, taking it from a paper and spread- 
ing it on the old-fashioned chest of drawers. "It is 
not the identical cloth, for that was required at the 
trial, together with a fac-simile of the blind; but I can 
assure you that this one is just like the original, blue-bor- 
dered and fringed precisely the same, and we traced the 
spots on it exactly similar before we let the other go. 
For we knew that folks would naturally be interested in 
such a memento," 

"It is indeed deeply absorbing, " said Mrs. Young. ' ' I 
wonder, now, what the size of that hand might be ? Not 
yours, Mr. Graub; yours is a very small hand. Let me 
compare. Suppose I place my fingers so (I will not touch 
it). Yes, a large hand, without doubt, and a left hand. 
Do you know of any left-handed persons about here ?" 

' ' Why, the man himself was left-handed, " answered the 
landlord and Mrs. Strain together — "Captain Heathcote 
himself." 

"He had been wounded, and carried iiis right arm in 
a sling," added Mr, Graub, 

" Ah, yes," said the widow ; " I remember now. Was 
this impression measured ?" 

"Yes; I have the exact figures, " replied the landlord, 
taking out a note-book, and reading the items aloud in a 
slow, important voice, 

"Did you measure it yourself?" asked the widow. 
"Because if you did it, I shall feel sure the figures are 
correct," 



ANNE, 505 

''I did not measure it myself," answered Mr. Graub, 
not unimpressed by this confidence. "I can, however, 
re-measure it in a moment if it would be any gratification 
to you." 

' ' It would be —immense, " said the widow. Whereupon 
he went down stairs for a measure. 

" I am subject to dizziness myself, but I must hear some 
one come u^d that outside stairway ," said Mrs. Young to 
Mrs. Strain during his absence. " Would you do it for 
me ? I want to imagine the ivhole.'''' 

Mrs. J. Strain, though stout, consented ; and when her 
highly decorated bonnet was out of sight, the visitor swift- 
ly drew from her pocket the paper outline of Heathcote's 
hand which Anne had given her, and compared it with 
the impression. The outlines seemed different ; the hand 
which had touched the cloth appeared to have been 
shorter and wider than Heathcote\s, the finger-tips broad- 
er, as though cushioned with flesh underneath. Mrs. 
Strain's substantial step was now heard on the outside 
stairway. But the pattern was already safely returned 
to the deep pocket of Mrs. Young. 

"I have been xncturing the entire scene," she said, in 
an impressive whisper when the bonnet re-appeared, "and 
I assure you that when I heard your footsteps on those 
stairs, goose-flesh rose and ran like lightning down my 
spine." And Mrs. Strain, though out of breath, consid- 
ered that her services had been well repaid. 

Mr. Graub now returned, and measured the prints with 
the nicest accuracy. Owing to the widow's compliment 
to his hands, he had stopped to Vv^ash them, in order to give 
a finer effect to the operation. Mrs. Young requested 
that the figures be written down for her on a slip of 
paper, "as a memorial''; and then, with one more ex 
haustive look at the room, tlie stairway, and the garden, 
she went away, accompanied by her friend, leaving Mr. 
Graub more than ever convinced that he was a very un- 
usual man. 

Mrs. Strain was easily induced to finish the afternoon's 
dissipations by goLcg through the grass meadow by the 
side of the track made by the murderer on his way to the 



506 ANNE. 

river. Tliey walked "by the side," because the track it- 
self was railed off. So many persons had visited the 
meadow that Mr. Graub had been obliged to protect his 
relic in order to preserve its identity, and even existence. 
The little trail was now conspicuous by the fringing of 
tall grass which still stood erect on each side of it, the 
remainder of the meadow having been trodden flat. 

"It ends at the river," said Mrs. Young, reflectively. 

'' Yes, where he came to wash his hands, after the deed 
was done," responded Mrs. Strain. "And what his vi- 
sions and inward thoughts must have been at sech a mo- 
ment I leave you, Mrs. Young, solemnly to consider." 

Mrs. Young then returned homew^ard, after thanking 
her Timloesville friend for a "most impressive day." 

"The outlines are too indistinct to be really of much 
use, Euth," she said, as she removed her bonnet. "I be- 
lieve it was so stated at the trial, wasn't it ? But if I 
have eyes, they do not fit." 

* ' Of course not, since it is the hand of another person, " 
replied Anne. " But did you notice, or rather could you 
see, what the variations were ?" 

' ' A broader palm, I should say, and the fingers short- 
er. The only point, however, which I could make out 
with certainty was the thick cushion of flesh at the ends 
of the fingers; that seemed clear enough." 

At sunset they went across the fields together to the 
point on the river-bank where the meadow trail ended. 

"The river knows all," said An ue, looking wistfully 
at the smooth water. 

" They think so too, for they've dragged it a number 
of times," responded Miss Lois. "All the boys in the 
neighborhood have been diving here ever since, I am 
told ; they fancy the purse, watch, and rings are in the 
mud at the bottom. But they're safe enough in some- 
body's pocket, you may be sure." 

"Miss Lois," said the girl, suddenly, "perhaps he went 
away in a boat !" 

"My name is Deborah— Aunt Deborah; and I do 
wish, Ruth, you would not forget it so constantly. In 
a boat ? Well, perhaps he did. But I don't see how 



ANNE. 507 

that helps it. To-morrow is market-day, and I must go 
in to the village and look out for left-handed men ; they 
won't escape me though they fairly dance jigs on their 
right!" 

"He went away in a boat," repeated Anne, as they 
walked homeward through the dusky fields. 

But the man was no nearer or plainer because she had 
taken him from the main road and placed him on the 
river; he seemed, indeed, more distant and shadowy than 
before. 



Chapter XXXVIII. 



"The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, 
And tilts against the field, 
And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent, 
With steel-blue mail and shield." 

— Longfellow. 

Miss Lois came home excited. She had seen a left- 
handed man. True, he was a well-known farmer of the 
neighborhood, a jovial man, apparently frank and hon- 
est as the daylight. But there was no height of impossi- 
bility impossible to Miss Lois when she was on a quest. 
She announced her intention of going to his farm on the 
morrow under the pretext of looking at his peonies, which, 
she had been told, were remarkably fine, "for of course 
I made inquiries immediately, in order to discover the 
prominent points, if there were any. If it had been 
onions, I should have been deeply interested in them just 
the same." 

Anne, obliged for the present to let Miss Lois make the 
tentative efforts, listened apathetically ; then she men- 
tioned her wish to row on the river. 

"Better stay at home," said Miss Lois. "Then I shall 
know you are safe." 

''But I should like to go, if merely for the air," replied 
Anne. "My head throbs as I sit here through the long 



508 ANNE. 

hours. It is not that I expect to accomplish anything", 
thoug-h I confess I am haunted by the river, but the mo- 
tion and fresh air would perhaps keep me from thinking 
so constantly." 

"I am a savage," said Miss Lois, ''and you shall go 
where you please. The truth is, Ruth, that while I am 
pursuing this matter with my mental faculties, you are 
pursuing it with the inmost fibres of your heart." (The 
sentence was mixed, but the feeling sincere.) "I will go 
down this very moment, and begin an arrangement about 
a boat for you." 

She kept her word. Anne, sitting by the window, 
heard her narrating to Mrs. Blackwell a long chain of 
reasons to explain the fancy of her niece Ruth for row- 
ing. " She inherits it from her mother, poor child," said 
the widow, with the sigh which she always gave to the 
memory of her departed relatives. ' ' Her mother was the 
daughter of a light-house keeper, and lived, one might say, 
afloat. Little Ruthie, as a baby, used to i^lay boat ; her 
very baby-talk was full of sailor words. You haven't 
any kind of a row-boat she could use, have you ?" 

Mrs. Blackwell replied that they had not, but that a 
neighbor farther down the river owned a skiff which 
might be borrowed. 

"Borrow it, then," said Mrs. Young. "They will 
lend it to you, of course, in a friendly way, and then ice 
can pay you something for the use of it." 

This thrifty arrangement, of which Mrs. Blackwell un- 
aided would never have thought, was carried into effect, 
and early the next morning the skiff floated at the foot of 
the meadow, tied to an overhanging branch. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Young, in the farm wagon, ac- 
companied by her hostess, and her hostess's little son as 
driver, set oft' for John Cole's farm, to see, in Mrs. Black- 
well's language, "the pynies." A little later Anne was 
in the skiff, rowing up the river. She had not had oars 
in her hands since she left the island. 

She rowed on for an hour, through the green fields, 
then through the woods. Long-legged flies skated on the 
still surface of the water, insects with gauzy wings floated 



ANNE. 509 

to and fro. A dragon-fly with steel-blue mail lighted on 
tlie edge of the boat. The burnished little creature seem- 
ed attracted. He would not leave her, but even when 
he took flight floated near by on his filmy wings, timing 
his advance with hers. With one of those vague im- 
pulses by which women often select the merest chance 
to decide their actions, Anne said to herself, "I will row on 
until I lose sight of him. " Turning the skiflp, she took one 
oar for a paddle, and followed the dragon-fly. He flew on 
now more steadily, selecting the middle of the stream. 
No doubt he had a dragon-fly's motives ; perhaps he was 
going home ; but whether he was or not, he led Anne's 
boat onward until the river grew suddenly narrower, and 
entered a ravine. Here, where the long boughs touched 
leaf-tips over her head, and everything was still and 
green, she lost him. The sun was sinking toward the 
western horizon line ; it was time to return ; but she said 
to herself that she would come again on the morrow, and 
explore this cool glen to which her gauzy-winged guide 
had brought her. When she reached home she found 
Miss Lois there, and in a state of profound discomfiture. 
" The man was left-handed enough," she said, "but, come 
to look at him, he hadn't any little finger at all : chopped 
off by mistake when a boy. Now the little finger in the 
impression is the most distinct part of the whole; and so 
we've lost a day, and the price of the wagon thrown in, not 
to speak of enough talking about peonies to last a life- 
time ! There's a fair to-morrow, and of course I must go : 
more left hands : although now, I confess, they swim 
round me in a cloud of vexation and peonies, which 
makes me never want to lay eyes on one of them again;" 
and she gave a groan, ending in a long yawn. However, 
the next morning, with patience and energies renewed by 
sleep, she rose early, like a phoenix from her ashes, and 
accompanied Mrs. Blackwell to the fair. Anne, again in 
her skiif. went up the river. She rowed to the glen 
where she had lost the dragon-fly. Here she rested on 
her oars a moment. The river still haunted her. "He 
went away in a boat," had not been out of her mind since 
it first came to her. " He went away in a boat," she now 



510 ^NNE. 

thought again. "Would he, then, have rowed up oi 
down the stream ? If he had wished to escape from the 
neighborhood, he would have rowed down to the larger 
river below. He would not have rowed up stream unless 
he lived somewhere in this region, and was simply going 
home, because there is no main road in this direction, no 
railway, nothing but farms which touch each other for 
miles round. Now, as I believe he was not a stranger, 
but a resident, I will suppose that he went up stream, and I 
will follow him." She took up her oars and rowed on. 

The stream grew still narrower. She had been rowing 
^ long time, and knew that she must be far from home. 
Nothing broke the green solitude of the shore until at 
last she came suddenly upon a little board house, hardly 
more than a shanty, standing near the water, with the 
forest behind. She started as she saw it, and a chill ran 
over her. And yet what was it ? Only a little board 
house. 

She rowed past ; it seemed empty and silent. She turn- 
ed the skifip, came back, and gathering her courage, land- 
ed, and timidly tried the door; it was locked. She went 
round and looked through the window. There was no 
one within, but there were signs of habitation— some com- 
mon furniture, a gun, and on the wall a gaudy picture of 
the Virgin and the Holy Child. She scrutinized the place 
with eyes that noted even the mark of muddy boots on 
the floor and the gray ashes from a pipe on the table. 
Then suddenly she felt herself seized with fear. If the 
owner of the cabin should steal up behind her, and ask her 
what she was doing there ! She looked over her shoulder 
fearfully. But no one was visible, no one was coming 
up or down the river; her own boat was the only thing 
that moved, swaying to and fro where she had left it tied 
to a tree trunk. With the vague terror still haunting 
tier, she hastened to the skiff, pushed off, and paddled 
swiftly away. But during the long voyage homeward 
the fear did not entirely die away. " I am growing fool- 
ishly nervous," she said to herself, with a weary sigh. 

Miss Lois had discovered no left-handed men at the fair; 
but she had seen a person whom she considered suspicious 



ANNE. 5H 

— a person who sold medicines. " He was middle-sized," 
she said to Anne, in the low tone they used when with- 
in tlie house, ' ' and he had a down look — a thing I never 
could abide. He spoke, too, in an odd voice. I suspected 
him as soon as I laid my eyes upon him, and so just 
took up a station near him, and watched. He wasn't 
left-handed exactly,^' she added, as though he might have 
been so endowed inexactly; "but he is capable of any- 
thing — left-handed, web-footed, or whatever you please. 
After taking a good long look at him, I went round 
and made (of course by chance, and accidentally) some 
inquhies. Nobody seemed to know much about him ex- 
cept that his name is Juder (and highly appropriate in my 
opinion), and he came to the fair the day before with his lit- 
tle hand-cart of medicines, and ivent out again, into the 
country somewhere, at sunset. Do you mark the signifi- 
cance of that, Ruth Young ? He did not stay at the Tim- 
loe hotel (prices reduced for the fair, and very reasonable 
beds on the floor), like the other tradere; but though the 
fair is to be continued over to-morrow, and he is to be 
there, he took all the trouble to go out of town for the 
night." 

" Perhaps lie had no money," said Anne, abstractedly. 

" I saw him with my own eyes take in dollars and dol- 
lars. Singular that when country people will buy nothing 
else, they will buy patent medicines. No : the man knows 
something of that murder, and could not stay at that ho- 
tel, Ruth Young. And that's my theory." 

In her turn Anne noAV related the history of the day, 
and the discovery of the solitary cabin. Miss Lois was 
not much impressed by the cabin, "A man is better 
tha n a house, any day, " she said. "But the tliiug is to get 
the man to say 'cold,' I shall ask him to-morrow if he 
has any pills for a cold in the head or on the lungs ; and, 
as he tells long stories about the remarkable cures his 
different bottles have effected, I hope, when I once get 
him started, to hear the word several times, I confess, 
Ruth, that I have great hopes; I feel the spirit rising 
within me to run him down," 

Miss Lois went again to the fair, her mission bubbling 



512 . ANNE. 

within her. At eight in the morning she started ; at nine 
in the evening she returned. With skirt and shawl be- 
draggled, and bonnet awry, she came to Anne's room, 
closed the door, and demanded tragically that the broom- 
switch should be taken from the shelf and applied to her 
own thin shoulders. "I deserve it," she said. 

"For what ?" said Anne, smiling. 

Miss Lois returned no answer until she had removed 
her bonnet and brought forward a chair, seated herself 
upon it, severely erect, with folded arms, and placed her 
feet on the round of another. "I went to that fair," 
she began, in a concentrated tone, "and I followed that 
medicine man; wherever he stopped his hand-cart and 
tried to sell, /was among his audience. I heard all his 
stories over and over again ; every time he produced his 
three certificates, /read them. I watched his hands, too, 
and made up my mind that they would do, though I did 
not catch him in operi left-handedness. I now tried 
'cold.' 'Have you any pills for a cold in the head V I 
asked. But all he said was 'yes,' and he brought out a 
bottle. Then I tried him with a cold on the lungs ; but 
it w^as just the same. ' What are your testimonials for 
colds ?' I remarked, as though I had not quite made up 
my mind ; and he thereupon told two stories, but they were 
incoherent, and never once mentioned the word I was 
waiting to hear. ' Haven't you ever had a cold your- 
self ?' I said, getting mad. ' Can't you speak ?' And 
then, looking frightened, he said he often had colds, and 
that he took those medicines, and that they always cured 
him. And then hurriedly, and without waiting for the 
two bottles wdiich I held in my hand tightly, he began to 
move on wdth his cart. But he had said 'gold,' Ruth 
—he had actually said 'gold !' And, \vitli the stiugs of a 
guilty, murderous conscience torturing him, he was going 
away without the thirty-seven and a half cents each 
which those two bottles cost ! It was enough for me. 
I tracked him from that moment — at a distance, of 
course, and in roundabout ways, so that he would not sus- 
pect. I think during the day I must have walked, owing 
to doublings and never stopping, twenty miles. When at 



ANNE. 513 

last the fair was over, and he started away, I started too. 
He went by the main road, and I by a lane, and such work 
as I had to keep him in sight, and yet not let him see me ! 
I almost lost him several times, but persevered until he 
too turned off and went up a hill opposite toward a grove, 
dragging his little cart behind him. I followed as quick- 
ly as I could. He was in the grove as I drew near, step- 
l)ing as softly as possible, and others were with him ; 1 
heard the murmur of voices. ' I have come upon the 
whole villainous band,' I thought, and I crept softly 
in among the trees, hardly daring to breathe. Ruth, the 
voices had a little camp ; they had just lighted a fire ; and 
— what do you think they were ? Just a parcel of chil- 
dren, the eldest a slip of a girl of ten or eleven ! I nev- 
er was more dumfounded in my life. Ruth, that medi- 
cine man sat down, kissed the children all round, opened 
his cart, took out bread, cheese, and a little package of tea, 
while the eldest girl put on a kettle, and they all began 
to talk. And then the youngest, a little tot, climbed up 
on his knee, and called him — Mammy! This was too 
much ; and I appeared on the scene. Ruth, he gathered 
up the children in a frightened sort of way, as if I were 
going to eat them. 'What do you mean by following 
me round all day like this V he began, trying to be brave, 
though I could see how scared he was. It ivas rather 
unexpected, you know, my appearing there at that hour 
so far from town. ' I mean,' said I, 'to know who and 
what you are. Are you a woman, or are you a man ?' 

" ' Can't you see,' said the poor creature, ' with all these 
children around? But it's not likely from your looks 
that you ever had any of your own, so you don't know.' 
She said that, " thoughtfully remarked Miss Lois, inter- 
rupting her own narrative, ' ' and it has been said before. 
But how in the world any one can know it at sight is and 
always will be a mystery to me. Then said I to her, 
' Are you the mother, then, of all these children ? And 
if so, how came you to be selling medicines dressed up 
like a man ? It's perfectly disgraceful, and you ought to 
be arrested.' 

" 'No one would buy of me if I was a woman,' she 
33 



514 ANNE. 

answered, ' The cart and medicines belonged to my hus> 
band, and he died, poor fellow ! four weeks ago, leaving 
me without a cent. What was I to do ? I know all the 
medicines, and I know all he used to say when he sold 
them. He was about my size, and I could wear his clothes. 
I just thought I'd try it for a little while during fair- 
time for the sake of the children — only for a little while 
to get started. So I cut my hair and resked it. And 
it's done tolerably well until you come along and nearly 
scared my life out of me yesterday and to-day. I don't see 
wliat on earth you meant by it.' 

"Ruth, I took tea with that family on the hill-side, 
and I gave them all the money I had with me, I have now 
come home. Any plan you have to projDOse, I'll follow 
without a word. I have decided that my mission in this 
life is not to lead. But she did say gold for cold," added 
Miss Lois, with the spirit of "scissors." 

"I am afraid a good many persons say it," answered 
Anne, 

The next day Miss Lois gave herself up passively to the 
boat. They were to take courage in each otlier's presence, 
and row to the solitary cabin on the shore. When they 
reached it, it was again deserted. 

' ' There is no path leading to it or away from it in any 
direction," said Miss Lois, after peeping through the small 
window, "The fire is still burning. The owner, there- 
fore, whoever it is, uses a boat, and can not have been 
long gone either, or the fire would be out," 

' ' If he had gone down the river, we should have met 
him," suggested Anne, still haunted by the old fear, and 
watching the forest glades apprehensively, 

"How do you know it is a heV said Miss Lois, with 
grim humor. "Perhaps this, too, is a woman. How- 
ever, as you say, if he had gone down the river, probably 
we should have met him — a ' probably' is all we have to 
stand on — and the chances are, therefore, that he has gone 
up. So we will go up." 

They took their places in the skiff again, and the little 
craft moved forward. After another half-hour they saw, 
to their surprise, a broad expanse of shining water open- 



'^^^:::?"~^ 




Wl 1^:^? 



ANNE. 515 

Ing out before them : the river was the outlet of a little 
lake two miles long". 

"This, then, is where they go fishing'," said Miss Lois. 
"The Black wells spoke of the pond, but I thought it was 
on the other side of the valley. Push out, Ruth. There 
are two boats on it, both dug--outs; well row by them." 

The first boat contained a boy, who said, ' ' Good-day, 
mums," and showed a string- of fish. The second boat, 
which was farther up the lake, contained a man. He 
was also fisliing, and his face was shaded by an old 
slouch hat. Anne, who was rowing-, could not see him as 
they approached ; but she saw Miss Lois's hands close sud- 
denly upon each other in their lisle-thread gloves, and 
was prepared for something, she knew not what. No 
word was spoken; she rowed steadily on, though her 
heart was throbbing. When she too could look at the 
man, she saw what it was: he was holding his rod with 
his left hand. 

Their skiff had not paused ; it passed him and his dug- 
out, and moved onward a quarter of a mile — half a mile — 
before they spoke ; they were afraid the very air would be- 
tray them. Then Anne beached the boat under the shade 
of a tree, took off her straw hat, and b'kthed her pale face 
in the clear water. 

"After all, it is the vaguest kind of a chance," said 
Miss Lois, rallying, and bringing forward the common- 
sense view of the case: "no better a one, at this stage, 
than the peony farmer or my medicine man. You must 
not be excited, Ruth." 

"I am excited only because I have thought so much 
of the river, " said Anne. ' ' The theory that the man who 
did it went away from the foot of that meadow in a boat, 
and up this river, has haunted me constantly." 

"Theories are like scaffolding: they are not the house, 
but you can not build the house without them," said 
Miss Lois. "What we've got to do next is to see wheth- 
er this man has all his fingers, whether he is a woman, 
and whether he says, 'gold.' Will you leave it to me, or 
will you speak to him yourself? On the whole, I think 
you had better speak to him: your face is in your favor." 



516 ANNE. 

When Anne felt herself sufficiently calm, they rowea 
down the lake again, and passed nearer to the dug-out, 
and paused. 

"Have you taken many fish?" said Anne, in a voice 
totally unlike her own, owing to the effort she made to 
control it. The fisherman looked up, took his rod in his 
right hand, and, with his left, lifted a string of fish. 

"Pretty good, eh ?" he said, regarding Anne with slow- 
coming approval. "Have some ?" 

"Oh no,'' she answered, almost recoiling. 

' ' But, on the whole, I think I should like a few for tea, 
Ruth," said Miss Lois, hastening to the rescue — "my 
health," she added, addressing the fisherman, "not being 
what it was in the lifetime of Mr. Young. How much 
are your fish ? I should like six, if you do not ask too 
much." 

The man named his price, and the widow objected. 
Then she asked him to hold up the string again, that she 
might have a better view. He laid his rod aside, held the 
string in his right hand, and as she selected, still bargain- 
ing for the fish she preferred, he detached them with his left 
hand. Two pairs of eyes, one old, sharp, and aided by 
spectacles, the other young, soft, intent, yet fearful, watch- 
ed his every motion. When he held the fish toward them, 
the widow was long in finding her ]3urse ; the palm of his 
hand was toward them, they could see the underside of 
the fingers. They were broad, and cushioned with coarse 
flesh. 

Aiuie had now grown so pale that the elder woman 
did not dare to linger longer. She paid the money, took 
the fish, and asked her niece to row on down the lake, 
not forgetting, even then, to add that she was afraid of 
the sun's heat, having once had a sun-stroke during the 
life of the lamented Mr. Young. Anne rowed on, hardly 
knowing what she was doing. Not until they had reach- 
ed the little river again, and were out of sight round its 
curve under the overhanging trees, did they speak. 

"Left-handed, and cushions under his finger-tips," said 
Miss Lois. "But, Ruth, how you acted! You almost 
betrayed us." 



ANNE. 517 

"I could not help it," said Anne, shuddering. "When 
I saw that hand, and thought — Oh, poor, poor Kelen!" 

"You must not give way to fancies, " said Miss Lois. 
But she too felt an inward excitement, though she would 
not acknowledge it. 

The fisherman was short in stature, and broad ; he was 
muscular, and his arms seemed too long for his body as 
he sat in his boat. His head was set on his shoulders with- 
out visible throat, his small eyes were very near together, 
and twinkled when he spoke, while his massive jaw con- 
tradicted their ferrety mirthfulness as his muscular frame 
contradicted the childish, vacant expression of his pecul- 
iarly small boyish mouth, whose upper lip protruded over 
narrow yellow teeth like fangs. 

" Faces have little to do with it," said Miss Lois again, 
half to herself, half to Anne, "It is well known that 
the portraits of murderers show not a few fine-looking 
men among them, while the women are almost invariably 
handsome. What I noticed was a certain want in the 
creature's face, a weakness of some kind, with all his ev- 
ident craftiness." 

When they came to the solitary cabin, Miss Lois pro- 
posed that they should wait and see whether it really was 
the fisherman's home. ' ' It will be another small point 
settled," she said. "We can conceal our boat, and keep 
watch in the woods. As he has my money, he will pro- 
bably come home soon, and very likely go directly down 
to the village to spend it: that is always the way with 
such shiftless creatures." 

They landed, hid the boat in a little bay among the 
reeds some distance below the cabin, and then stole back 
through the woods until they came within sight of its door. 
There, standing concealed behind two tree trunks, they 
waited, neither speaking nor stirring. Miss Lois was 
right in her conjecture : within a quarter of an hour the 
fisherman came down the river from the lake, stopped at 
the house, brought out a jug, placed it in his dug-out ; then, 
relocking the door, lie paddled by them down the river. 
They waited some minutes without stirring. Then Misr 
Lois stepped from her hiding-place. 



518 ANNE. 

"Whiskey !" she said. "And my money pays for the 
damnable stuff !" This reflection kept her silent while they 
returned to the skiff; but when they were again afloat, she 
sighed and yielded it as a sacrifice to the emergencies of 
the quest. Returning to the former subject, she held forth 
as follows: "It is something, Ruth, but not all. We 
must not hope too much. What is it? A man lives up 
the river, and owns a boat; he is left-handed, and has 
cushions of flesh under his finger-tips : that is the whole. 
For we can scarcely count as evidence the fact that he is 
as ugly as a stump fence, such men being not uncommon 
in the world, and often pious as well. We must do no- 
thing hurriedly, and make no inquiries, lest we scare the 
game — if it is game. To-morrow is market-day ; he will 
probably be in the village with fish to sell, and the best 
way will be for me to find out quietly who his associates 
are, by using my eyes and not my tongue. His asso- 
ciates, if he has any, might next be tackled, through their 
wives, perhaps. Maybe they do sewing, some of them ; 
in that case, we could order something, and so get to 
speaking terms. There's my old challis, which I have 
had dyed black — it might be made over, though I ivas 
going to do it myself. And now do row home, Ruth ; 
I'm dropping for my tea. This exploring work is power- 
fully wearing on the nerves." 

The next day she went to the village. 

Anne, finding herself uncontrollably restless, went down 
and unfastened the skiff, with the intention of rowing 
awhile to calm her excited fancies. She went up the river 
for a mile or two. Her mind had fastened itself tenacious- 
ly upon the image of the fisherman, and would not loosen 
its hold. She imagined him stealmg up the stairway and 
leaning over Helen; then escaping with his booty, run- 
ning through the meadow, and hidmg it in his boat, pro- 
bably the same old black dug-out she had seen. And then, 
\vhile she was thinking of him, she came suddenly upon 
him, sitting in his dug-out, not ten feet distant, fishing. 
Miss Lois had been mistaken in her surmise : he was not in 
the village, but here. 

There had not been a moment of preparation for Anne ; 



ANNE. 519 

yet in the emergency coolness came. Resting on her oars, 
she spoke : ' ' Have you any fish to-day ?" 

He shook his head, and held up one. "That's all," he 
said, drawing his hand over his mouth by way of prepa- 
ration for conversation. 

' ' I should not think there would be as many fish here 
as in the lake," she continued, keeping her boat at a dis- 
tance by a slight motion of her oars. 

"When the wind blows hard, there's more in the river," 
he answered, ' ' Wind blows to-day. " 

Was she mistaken ? Had he given a sound of d to thf 

"But the water of the lake must be colder," she said, 
hardly able to pronounce the w^ord herself. 

' ' Yes, in places where it's deep. But it's mostly shaller. " 

"How cold is it? Very cold?" (Was she saying 
"gold" too?) 

"No, not very, this time o' year. But cold enough in 
April." 

"What?" 

"Cold enough in April," replied the fisherman, his small 
eyes gazing at her with increasing approbation. 

He had given the sound of g to the c. The pulses in 
Anne's throat and temples were throbbing so rapidly now 
that she could not speak. 

"I could bring yer some fish to-morrer, I reckon," said 
the man, making a clicking sound with his teeth as he felt 
a bite and then lost it. 

She iiodded, and began to turn the boat. 

"Where do you live ?" he called, as the space between 
them widened. 

She succeeded in pronouncing the name of her hostess, 
and then rowed round the curve out of sight, trying not to 
betray her tremulous haste and fear. All the way home 
she rowed with the strength of a giantess, not knowing how 
she Avas exerting herself until she began to walk through 
the meadow toward the house, when she found her limbs 
failing her. She reached her room with an effort, and 
locking her door, threw herself down on a couch to wait 
for Miss Lois. It was understood in the house that ' ' poor 
Miss Young" had one of her "mathematical headaches." 



520 ^^NE- 



Chapter XXXIX. 

" God made him ; therefore let him pass for a man." 

— Shakspeare. 

When Miss Lois returned, and saw Anne's face, she 
was herself stirred to excitement. "You have seen him!" 
she said, in a whisper. 

"Yes. He is the murderer: I feel it." 

"Did he say 'gold' ?" 

"He did." 

They sat down on the couch together, and in whispers 
Anne told all. Then they looked at each other. 

"We must work as liglitly as thistle-down," said Miss 
Lois, "or we shall lose him. He was not in the village to- 
day, and as he was not, I thought it safer not to inquire 
about him. I am glad now that I did not. But you are in 
a high fever, dear child. This suspense must be brought to 
an end, or it will kill you." She put her arms round Anne 
and kissed her fondly — an unusual expression of feeling 
from Miss Lois, who had been brought up in the old-fash- 
ioned rigidly undemonstrative New England manner. 
And the girl put her head down upon her old friend's 
shoulder and clung to her. But she could not weep ; the 
relief of tears was not yet come. 

In the morning they saw the fisherman at the foot of 
the meadow, and watched him through the blinds, breath- 
lessly. He was so much and so important to them that it 
seemed as if they must be the same to him. But he was 
only bringing a string of fish to sell. He drew up his dug- 
out on the bank, and came toward the house with a rolling 
step, carrying his fish. 

"There's a man here with some fish, that was order- 
ed, he says, by somebody from here," said a voice on 
the stairs. "Was it you, Mrs. Young ?" 

"Yes. Come in, Mrs. Blackwell — do. My niece order- 
ed them: you know they're considered very good for an 



ANNE. 521 

exhausted brain. Perhaps I'd better go down and look 
at them myself. And, by-the-way, who is this man ?" 

"It's Sandy Croom; he lives up near the pond." 

" Yes, we met him up that way. Is he a German ?" 

"There's Dutch blood in him, I reckon, as there is in 
most of the people about here who are not Marylanders, " 
said Mrs. Blackwell, who ivas a Marylander. 

' ' He's a curious-looking creature, ' ' pursued Mrs. Young, 
as they descended the stairs. ' ' Is he quite right in his 
mind ?" 

"Some think he isn't; but others say he's sharper than 
we suppose. He drinks, though." 

By this time they were in the kitchen, and Mrs. Young 
went out to the porch to receive and pay for the fisli, 
her niece Ruth silently following. Croom took off his 
old hat and made a backward scrape with his foot by way 
of salutation ; his small head was covered with a mat of 
boyish-looking yellow curls, which contrasted strangely 
with his red face. 

"Here's yer fish," he said, holding them out toward 
Anne. 

But she could not take them : she was gazing, fascina- 
ted, at his hand — that broad short left hand which haunt- 
ed her like a horrible phantom day and night. She raised 
her handkerchief to her lips in order to conceal, as far as 
possible, the horror she feared her face must betray. 

"You never could abide a fishy smell, Ruth," said Mrs. 
Young, interposing. She XDaid the fisherman, and asked 
whether he fished in the winter. He said "no," but gave 
no reason. He did not, as she had hoped, pronounce the 
desired word. Then, after another gaze at Anne, he went 
away, but turned twice to look back before he reached 
the end of the garden. 

"It can not be that he suspects !" murmured Anne. 

"No; it's your face, child. Happy or unhappy, you 
can not help having just the same eyes, hair, and skin, 
thank the Lord !" 

They went up stairs and watched him from the window ; 
he pushed off his dug-out, got in, and paddled toward the 
village. 



522 ANNE. 

" More whiskey !" said Miss Lois, sitting down and rub- 
bing her forehead. "I wish, Ruth Young — I devoutly 
wish that I knew what it is best to do noiv .'" 

"Then you think with me V said Anne, eagerly. 

"By no means. There isn't a particle of certainty. 
But — I don't deny that there is a chance. The trouble is 
that we can hardly stir in the matter Avithout arousing 
his suspicion. If he had lived in the village among other 
people, it would not have been difficult; but, all alone in 
that far-off cabin — " 

Anne clasped her hands suddenly. "Let us send for 
Pere Michaux!" she said. "There was a f)icture of the 
Madonna in his cabin — he is a Roman Catholic. Let us 
send for Pere Michaux." 

They gazed at each other in excited silence. Miss Lois 
was the first to speak. " I'm not at all sure but that you 
have got hold of the difficulty by the right handle at last, 
Anne," she said, slowly, drawing a long audible breath. 
It was the first time she had used the name since their de- 
parture from New York. 

And the letter was written immediately. 

"It's a long journey for a small chance," said the eld- 
er woman, surveying it as it lay sealed on the table. 
"Still, I think he will come." 

" Yes, for humanity's sake," replied Anne. 

' ' I don't know about humanity, " replied her companion, 
huskily ; ' ' but he will come for yours. Let us get out in 
the open air ; I'm perfectly tired out by this everlasting 
whispering. It would be easier to roar." 

The letter was sent. Four days for it to go, four days 
for the answer to return, one day for chance. They agreed 
not to become impatient before the tenth day. 

But on the ninth came, not a letter, but something bet- 
ter — Pere Michaux in person. 

They were in the fields at sunset, at some distance from 
the house, when Anne's eyes rested upon him, walking 
along the country road in his old robust fashion, on his 
way to the farm-house. She ran across the field to the 
fence, calling his name. Miss Lois followed, but more 
slowly; her mind was in a turmoil regarding his unex- 



ANNE. 523 

pected arrival, and the difficulty of making him compre- 
hend or conform to the net- work of fable she had woven 
round their history. 

The old priest gave Anne his blessing; he was much 
moved at seeing her again. She held his hand in both of 
her own, and could scarcely realize that it was he, her 
dear old island friend, standing there in person beside her. 

"Dear, dear Pere Michaux, how good you are to come !" 
she said, incoherently, the tears filling her eyes, half in 
sorrow, half in joy. 

Miss Lois now came up and greeted him. "I am 
glad to see you," she said. Then, in the same breath: 
' ' Our names, Father Michaux, are Young ; Young— please 
remember." 

"How good you are to come!" said Anne again, the 
weight on her heart lightened for the moment as she 
looked into the clear, kind, wise old eyes that met her 
own. 

" Not so very good," said Pere Michaux, smiling. " I 
have been wishing to see you for some time, and I think I 
should have taken the journey before long in any case. 
Vacations are due me ; it is yeai's since I have had one, 
and I am an old man now." 

"You will never be old," said the girl, affectionately. 

"Young is the name," repeated Miss Lois, with un- 
conscious appositeness — "Deborah and Ruth Young." 

"I am glad at least that I am not too old to help you, 
my child," answered Pere Michaux, paying little heed to 
the elder woman's anxious voice. 

They were still standing by the road-side. Pere Mi- 
chaux proposed that they should remain in the open air 
while the beautiful hues of the sunset lasted, and they 
therefore returned to the field, and sat down under an 
elm-tree. Under ordinary circumstances. Miss Lois would 
have strenuously objected to this sylvan indulgence, hav- 
ing peculiarly combative feelings regarding dew ; but this 
evening the maze of doubt in which she was wandering 
as to whether or not Pere Michaux Avould stay in her web 
made dew a secondary consideration. Remaining in the 
fields would at least give time. 



524 ANNE. 

Pere Michaux was as clear-headed and energetic as 
ever. After the first few expressions of gladness and sat- 
isfaction, it was not long before he turned to Anne, and 
spoke of the subject which lay before them. "Tell me 
all," he said. "This is as good a time and place as any 
we could have, and there should be, I think, no delay." 

But though he spoke to Anne, it was Miss Lois who 
answered : it would have been simply impossible for her 
not to take that narrative into her own hands. 

He listened to the tale with careful attention, not in- 
terrupting her many details with so much as a smile or 
a shrug. This was very unlike his old way with Miss 
Lois, and showed more than anything else could have 
done his absorbed interest in the story. 

"It is the old truth," he said, after the long stream of 
words had finally ceased, ' ' Regarding the unravelling of 
mysteries, women seem sometimes endowed with a sixth 
sense. A diamond is lost oii a turnpike. A man goes 
along the turnpike searching for it. A woman, search- 
ing for it also, turns vaguely ofi" into a field, giving no 
logical reason for her course, and — finds it." 

But while he talked, his mind was in reality dwelling 
upon the pale girl beside him, the young girl in whom he 
had felt such strong interest, for whom he had involun- 
tarily cherished such high hope in those early days on 
the island. 

He knew of her testimony at the trial ; he had not been 
surprised. What he had prophesied for her had come in- 
deed. But not so fortunately or so happily as he had 
hoped. He had saved her from Erastus Pronando for this ! 
Was it well done ? He roused himself at last, perceiving 
that Anne was noticing his abstraction; her eyes were 
fixed upon him with anxious expectation. 

" I must go to work in my own way," he said, strok- 
ing her hair. "One point, however, I have already de- 
cided : you must leave this neighborhood immediately. I 
wish you had never come." 

' ' But she can not be separated from me, " said Miss Lois ; 
" and of course J shall be necessary in the search — I must 
be here." 



ANNE. 625 

*' I do not see that there is any necessity at present," re- 
plied Pere Michaux. ' ' You have done all you could, and 
I shall work better, I think, alone." Then, as the old 
quick anger flashed from her eyes, he turned to Anne. 
" It is on your account, child," he said. " I must make 
you go. I know it is like taking your life from you to 
send you away now. But if anything comes of this — if 
your woman's blind leap into the dark proves to have 
been guided by intuition, the lime-light of publicity will 
instantly be turned upon this neighborhood, and you 
could not escape discovery. Your precautions, or rather 
those of our good friend Miss Lois, have availed so far : 
you can still depart in their shadow unobserved. Do so, 
then, while you can. My first wish is — can not help being 
— that you should escape. I would rather even have the 
clew fail than have your name further connected with 
the matter." 

"This is what we get by applying to a vian,^^ said 
Miss Lois, in high indignation. "Always thmking of 
evil !" 

' ' Yes, men do think of it. But Anne will yield to my 
judgment, will she not ?" 

"I will do as you think best," she answered. But no 
color rose in her pale face, as he had expected; the 
pressing danger and the fear clothed the subject with a 
shroud. 

Miss Lois did not hide her anger and disappointment. 
Yet she would not leave Anne. And therefore the next 
morning Mrs. Young and her niece, with health much 
improved by their sojourn in the country, bade good-by 
to their hostess, and went southward in the little stage on 
their way back to " Washmgton." 

Pere Michaux was not seen at the farm-house at all ; he 
had returned to the village from the fields, and had taken 
rooms for a short sojourn at the Timloe hotel. 

The " Washington," in this instance, was a small town 
seventy miles distant ; here Mrs. Young and her niece took 
lodgings, and began, with what patience they could mus* 
ter, their hard task of waiting. 

As for Pere Michaux, he went fishing. 



526 ANNE. 

EXTRACT FROM THE LETTER OF A SUMMER FISHERMAN. 

" I have labored hard, Anne — harder than ever before 
in my life. I thought I knew what patience was, in my 
experience with my Indians and half-breeds. I never 
dreamed of its breadth until now! For my task has 
been the hard one of winning the trust of a trustless mind 
— trustless, yet crafty; of subduing its ever-rising reason- 
less suspicion; of rousing its nearly extinct aflPections; 
of touching its undeveloped, almost dead, conscience, and 
raising it to the point of confession. I said to myself that 
I would do all this in sincerity ; that I would make my- 
self do it in sincerity ; that I would teach the poor crea- 
ture to love me, and having once gained his ivarped af- 
fection, I would assume the task of caring for him as long 
as life lasted. If I did this in truth and real earnestness 
I might succeed, as the missionaries of my Church succeed, 
with the most brutal savages, because they are in earnest. 
Undertaking this, of course I also accepted the chance 
that all my labor, regarding the hope that you have 
cherished, might be in vain, and that this poor bundle of 
clay might not be, after all, the criminal we seek. Yet 
had it been so, my care of him through life must have been 
the same ; havmg gained his confidence, I could never 
have deserted him while I lived. Each day I have labored 
steadily ; but often I have advanced so slowly that I seem- 
ed to myself not to advance at all. 

' ' I began by going to the pond to fish. We met daily. 
At first I did not speak; I allowed him to become ac- 
customed to my presence. It was a long time before I 
even returned his glance of confused respect and acquaint- 
ance as our boats passed near each other, for he had at 
once recognized the priest. I built my foundations with 
exactest care and patience, often absenting myself in or- 
der to remove all suspicion of watchfulness or regularity 
from his continually suspicious mind ; for suspicion, enor- 
mously developed, is one of his few mental powers. I 
had to make my way through its layers as a minute blood- 
vessel penetrates the cumbrous leathern hide of the rhv 
noceros. 



ANNE. 527 

" I will not tell you all the details now ; but at last, one 
morning-, by a little cliance event, my long, weary, and ap- 
parently unsuccessful labor was crowned with success. 
He became attached to me. I suppose in all his poor 
warped life before no one had ever shown confidence in 
him or tried to win his affection. 

' ' The next step was not so difficult. I soon learned 
that he had a secret. In his ignorant way, he is a firm 
believer in the terrors of eternal punishment, and having 
become attached to me, I could see that he was debating in 
his own mind whether or not to confide it to me as a 
priest, and obtain absolution. I did not urge him; I 
did not even invite his confidence. But I continued faith- 
ful to him, and I knew that in time it would come. It 
did. You are right, Anne ; he is the murderer. 

"It seems that by night he is tormented by supersti- 
tious fear. He is not able to sleep unless he stupefies him- 
self with liquor, because he expects to see his victim ap- 
pear and look at him with her hollow eyes. To rid him- 
self of this haunting terror, he told all to me under the 
seal of the confessional. And then began the hardest task 
of all. 

' ' For as a priest I could not betray him (and I should 
never have done so, Anne, even for your sake), and yet 
another life was at stake. I told him with all the power, 
all the eloquence, I possessed, that his repentance would 
never be accepted, that he himself would never be for- 
given, unless he rescued by a public avowal the inno- 
cent man who was suifering in his place. And I gave 
him an assurance also, which must be kept even if I have 
to go in person to the Governor, that, in case of public 
avowal, his life should be spared. His intellect is plain- 
ly defective. If Miss Teller, Mr. Heathcote, and the law- 
yers unite in an appeal for him, I think it will be granted, 

" It has been, Anne, very hard, fearfully hard, to bring 
him to the desired point; more than once I have lost 
heart. Yet never have I used the lever of real menace, 
and I wish you to know that I have not. At last, thanks 
be to the eternal God, patience has conquered. Urged by 
the superstition which consumes him, he consented to re* 



528 ANNE. 

peat to the local officials, in my jDresence and under my pro« 
tection, tlie confession lie had made to me, and to give up 
the watch and rings, which have lain all this time buried 
in the earth behind his cabin, he fearing to uncover them 
until a second crop of grass should be groen.upon his vic- 
tim's grave, lest she should appear and take them from 
him ! He did this in order to be delivered in this world 
and the next, and he will be delivered ; for his crime wsla 
a brute one, like that of the wolf who slays the lamb. 

"I shall see you before long, my dear child; but you 
will find me worn and old. This has been the hardest toil 
of my whole life." 

Pere Michaux did not add that his fatigue of body and 
mind was heightened by a painful injury received at the 
hands of the poor wretch he was trying to help. Unex- 
pectedly one morning Groom had attacked him with a bil- 
let of wood, striking from behind, and without cause, save 
that he coveted the priest's fishing-tackle, and, in addition, 
something in the attitude of the defenseless white-haired 
old man at that moment tempted him, as a lasso-thrower 
is tempted by a convenient chance position of cattle. The 
blow, owing to a fortunate movement of Pere Michaux 
at the same instant, was not mortal, but it disabled the 
old man's shoulder and arm. And perceiving this. Groom 
had fled. But what had won his brute heart was the peace- 
ful appearance of the priest at his cabin door early the 
next morning, where the fisherman had made all ready 
for flight, and his friendly salutation. ' ' Of course I knew 
it was all an accident. Groom," he said ; "that you did not 
mean it. And I have come out to ask if you have not 
something you can recommend to apply to the bruise. 
You people who live in the woods have better balms than 
those made in towns ; and besides, I would rather ask your 
help than apply to a i^hysician, who might ask questions." 
He entered the cabin as he spoke, took off his hat, sat down, 
and offered his bruised arm voluntarily to the hands that 
had struck the blow. Groom, frightened, brought out a 
liniment, awkwardly assisted the priest in removing his 
coat, and then, as the old man sat quietly expectant, began 



ANNE. 529 

to apply it. As he went on he regained his courage : evi- 
dently he was not to be punished. The bruised flesh ap- 
pealed to him, and before he knew it he was bandaging the 
arm almost with affection. The priest's trust had won 
v/hat stood in the jDlace of a heart : it was so new to him to 
be trusted. This episode of the injured arm, more than 
anything else, won in the end the confession. 

EXTRACT FROM TKil NEW YORK "ZEUS." 

" Even the story of the last great battle was eclipsed in 
interest in certain circles of this city yesterday by the tid- 
ings which were flashed over the wires from a remote lit- 
tle village in Pennsylvania. Our readers will easily re- 
call the trial of Captain Ward Heathcote on the charge 
of murder, the murder of his own wife. The evidence 
against the accused was close, though purely circumstan- 
tial. The remarkable incidents of the latter part of the 
trial have not been forgotten. The jury were unable to 
agree, and the case went over to the November term. 

"The accused, though not convicted, has not had the 
sympathy of the public. Probably eight out of ten 
among those who read the evidence have believed him 
guilty. But yesterday brought the startling intelligence 
that human judgment has again been proven widely at 
fault, that the real murderer is in custody, and that he has 
not only confessed his guilt, but also restored the rings 
and watch, together with the missing towel. The chain 
of links is complete. 

"The criminal is described as a creature of uncouth 
appearance, in mental capacity deficient, though extraor- 
dinarily cunning. He spent the small amount of mon- 
ey in the purse, but was afraid to touch the rings and 
watch until a second crop of grass should be growing 
upon his victim's grave, lest she should appear and take 
them from him I It is to ignorant superstitious terror of 
this kind that we owe the final cajjture of this grotesque 
murderer. 

"His story fills out the missing parts of the evidence, 
and explains the apparent participation of the accused to 
have been but an intermingling of personalities. After 

34 



530 ANNE. 

Captain Heatlicote had gone down the outside stairway 
with the two towels in his pocket, this man, Croom, who 
was passing the end of the garden at the time, and had 
seen him come out by the light from the lamp within, 
stole up the same stairway in order to peer into the apart- 
ment, partly from curiosity, partly from the thought that 
there might be something there to steal. He supposed 
there was no one in the room, but when he reached the 
window and peeped through a crack in the old blind, he saw 
that there was some one — a woman asleep. In his cau- 
tion he had consumed fifteen or twenty minutes in cross- 
ing the garden noiselessly and ascending the stairway, 
and during this interval Mrs. Heathcote had fallen asleep. 
The light from the lamp happened to shine full on the dia- 
monds in her rings as they lay, together with her purse 
and watch, on the bureau, and he coveted the unexpected 
booty as soon as his eyes fell upon it. Quick as thought 
he drew open the blind, and crept in on his hands and 
knees, going straight toward the bureau ; but ere he could 
reach it the sleeper stirred. He had not intended murder, 
but his brute nature knew no other way, and in a second 
the deed was done. Then he seized the watch, purse, and 
rings, went out as he had come, through the window, 
closing the blind behind him, and stole down the stairway 
in the darkness. The man is left-handed. It will be re- 
membered that this proved left-handedness of the murder- 
er was regarded as a telling point against Captain Heath- 
cote, his right arm being at the time disabled, and support- 
ed by a sling. 

' ' Croom went through the grass meadow to the river- 
bank, where his boat was tied, and hastily hiding his spoil 
under the seat, was about to push off, when he was startled 
by a slight sound, which made him think that another boat 
was approaching. Stealing out again, he moved cautious- 
ly toward the noise, but it was only a man bathing at 
some distance down the stream, the stillness of the night 
having made his movements in the water audible. Wish- 
ing to find out if the bather were any one he knew, Croom^ 
under cover of the darkness, spoke to him from the bank, 
asking some chance question. The voice that replied was 




"he reached the window, and peeped through a crack in 
the old blind." 



ANNE. 531 

that of a stranger ; still, to make all sure, Groom secreted 
himself at a short distance, after pretending to depart by 
the main road, and waited. Presently the bather passed 
by, going homeward ; Groom, very near him, kneeling be- 
side a bush, was convinced by the step and figure that it 
was no one he knew, that it was not one of the villagers or 
neighboring farmers. After waiting until all was still, 
he went to the place where the man had bathed, and 
searched with his hands on the sand and grass to see if he 
had not droi)ped a cigar or stray coin or two : this petty 
covetousness, when he had the watch and diamonds, be- 
trays the limited nature of his intelligence. He found 
nothing save the two towels which Gaptain Heathcote had 
left behind; he took these and went back to his boat. 
There, on the shore, the sound of a dog's sudden bark 
alarmed him ; he dropi)ed one of the towels, could not find 
it among the reeds, and, w^ithout waiting longer, pushed 
off his boat and paddled up the stream toward home. 
This singular creature, who was bold enough to commit 
murder, yet afraid to touch his booty for fear of rousing 
a ghost, has been living on as usual all this time, within a 
mile or two of the village where his crime was committed, 
pursuing his daily occupation of fishing, and mixing with 
the villagers as formerly, without betraying his secret or 
attracting toward himself the least suspicion. His nar- 
row but remarkable craft is shown in the long account he 
gives of the intricate and roundabout ways he selected for 
spending the money he had stolen. The purse itself, to- 
gether with the watch, rings, and towel, he buried under 
a tree behind his cabin, where they have lain undisturbed 
until he himself unearthed them, and delivered them to 
the priest. 

' ' For this notable confession was obtained by the in- 
fluence of one of a body of men vowed to good works, a 
priest of the Roman Gatholic Ghurch. Groom was of the 
same faith, after his debased fashion, and in spite of his 
weak mind (perhaps on account of it) a suxDcrstitious, al- 
most craven, believer. 

"The presence of this rarely intelligent and charitable 
priest in Timloesville at this particular time may be set 



532 ANNE. 

down as one of those fortunate chances with which a some- 
what unfortunate world is occasionally blessed. Resting 
after arduous labor elsewhere, and engaged in the rural 
amusement of fishing, this kind-hearted old man noticed 
the degraded appearance and life of this poor waif of hu- 
manity, and in a generous spirit of charity set himself 
to work to enlighten and instruct him, as much as was 
possible during the short period of his stay. In this he 
was successful far beyond his expectation, far beyond his 
conception, like a laborer ploughing a field w^ho comes 
upon a vein of gold. He has not only won thi's poor 
wretch to repentance, but has also cleared from all suspi- 
cion of the darkest crime on the record of crimes the 
clouded fame of a totally innocent man. 

' ' Never was there a weightier example of the insuffi- 
ciency of what is called sufficient evidence, and while we, 
the public, should be deeply glad that an innocent man 
has been proven innocent, we should also be covered with 
confusion for the want of perspicacity displayed in the gen- 
eral prejudgment of this case, where minds seem, sheep- 
like, to have followed each other, without the asking of a 
question. The people of a rural neighborhood are so con- 
vinced of the guilt of the person whom they in their infal- 
libility have arrested that they pay no heed to other possi- 
bilities of the case. Cui hoiio ? And their wise-acre be- 
lief spreads abroad in its brightest hues to the press — to 
the world. It is the real foundation upon which all the 
evidence rested. 

' ' A child throws a stone. Its widening ripples stretch 
across a lake, and break upon far shores. A remote and 
bucolic community cherishes a surmise, and a continent 
accepts it. The nineteenth century is hardly to be con- 
gratulated upon such indolent inanity, such lambent lax. 
ity, as this." 



ANNE. 533 



Chapter XL. 

*' Who ordered toil as the condition of life, ordered failure, success ; 
to this person a foremost place, to the other a struggle with the crowd ; 
to each some work upon the ground he stands on until he is laid be- 
neath it. . . .Luck}' he who can bear his failure generously, and give 
up his broken sword to Fate, the conqueror, with a manly and humble 
heart." — William Makepeace Thackeray. 

When set at liberty, Ward Heathcote returned to New 
York. 

The newspapers everywhere had pubhshed similar ver- 
sions of Pere Michaux's agency in the discovery of the 
murderer, and Anne's connection with it was never 
known. To this day neither Mrs. Blackwell, Mrs. Strain, 
nor Mr. Graub himself, has any suspicion that their sum- 
mer visitors were other than the widow Young and her 
niece Ruth from the metroi)olis of Washington. 

Heathcote returned to New York. And society received 
him with widely open ai'ms. The women had never be- 
lieved in his guilt ; they now apotheosized him. The men 
had believed in it ; they now pressed forward to atone for 
their error. But it was a grave and saddened man who 
received this ovation — an ovation quiet, hardly expressed 
in words, but marked, nevertheless. A few men did say 
openly, "Forgive me, Heathcote; you can not be half 
so severe on me as I am on myself." But generally a 
silent grip of the hand was the only outward expression. 

The most noticeable sign was the deference paid him. 
It seemed as if a man who had unjustly suffered so much, 
and been so cruelly suspected, should now be crowned in 
the sight of all. They could not actually crown him, but 
they did what they could. 

Thix)ugh this deference and regret, through these man- 
ifestations of feeling from persons not easily stirred to 
feeling or defei-ence, Heathcote passed unmoved and ut- 
terly silent, like a man of marble. After a while it was 
learned that he had transferred Helen's fortune to other 



534 ANNE. 

hands. At first he had tried to induce Miss Teller to take 
it, but she had refused. He had then deeded it all to a 
hospital for children, in which his wife had occasionally 
evinced some interest. Society divided itself over this 
action; some admired it, others pronounced it Quixotic. 
But the man who did it seemed to care nothing for either 
their praise or their blame. 

Rachel asked Isabel if she knew where Anne was. 

"The very question I asked dear Miss Teller yester- 
day," replied Isabel. "She told me that Anne had re- 
turned to that island up in the Northwest somewhere, 
where she used to live. Then I asked, 'Is she going to 
remain there?' and Miss Teller answered, 'Yes,' but in 
such a tone that I did not like to question further. " 

"It has ended, then, as I knew it would," said Rachel. 
' ' In spite of all that display on the witness stand, you see 
he has not married her." 

"He could not marry her very well at present, I sup- 
pose," began Isabel, who had a trace of feeling in her 
heart for the young girl. 

But Rachel interrupted her. ' ' I tell you he will never 
marry her," she said, her dark eyes flashing out upon 
the thin blonde face of her companion. For old Mrs. 
Bannert was dead at last, and her daughter-in-law had 
inherited the estate. Two weeks later she sailed rather 
unexpectedly for Europe. But if unexpectedly, not cause- 
lessly. She was not a woman to hesitate ; before she went 
she had staked her all, played her game, and — lost it. 

Heathcote had never been, and was not now, a saint; 
but he saw life with different eyes. During the old care- 
less days it had never occurred to him to doubt himself, 
or his own good (that is, tolerably good — good enough) 
qualities. Suddenly he had found himself a prisoner be- 
hind bars, and half the world, even his own world, believed 
him guilty. This had greatly changed him. As the long 
days and nights spent in prison had left traces on his 
face which would never pass away, so this judgment pass- 
ed upon him had left traces on his heart which would 
not be outlived. As regarded both himself and others he 
was sterner. 



ANNE. 635 

Anne had returned with Miss Lois to the island. From 
New York he wrote to her, " If I can not see you, I shall 
go back to the army. My old life here is unendurable 
now." 

No letters had passed between them : this was the first. 
They had not seen each other since that interview in the 
Multomah prison. 

She answered simply, Go. 

He went. 

More than two years passed. Miss Teller journeyed 
westward to the island, and staid a long Ume at the 
church-house, during the fu'st summer, making with rev- 
erential respect an acquaintance with Miss Lois. During 
the second summer Tita came home to make a visit, as- 
tonishing her old companions, and even her own sister, by 
the peculiar beauty of her little face and figure, and her 
air of indulgent superiority over everything the poor isl- 
and contained. But she was happy. She smiled some- 
times with such real naturalness, her small white teeth 
gleaming through her delicate little lips, that Anne went 
across and kissed her out of pure gladness, gladness that 
she was so content. Rast had prospered — at least he was 
prospering now (he failed and prospei^ed alternately) — 
and his little wife pleased herself with silks that trailed 
behind her over the uncarpeted halls of the church-house, 
giving majesty (so she thought) to her small figure. If 
they did not give majesty, they gave an unexpected and 
bizarre contrast. Strangers who saw Tita that summer 
went home and talked about her, and never forgot her. 

The two boys were tall and strong — almost men; they 
had no desire to come eastward. Anne must not send 
them any more money ; they did not-need it ; on the con- 
trary, in a year or two, when they had made their for- 
tunes (merely a question of time), they intended to build 
for her a grand house on the island, and bestow upon 
her an income sufficient for all her wants. They request- 
ed her to obtain plans for this mansion, according to hei- 
taste. 

Pere Michaux was at work, as usual, in his water parish. 



536 ANNE. 

He had succeeded in obtaining a commutation of the 
death sentence, in Groom's case, to imprisonment for a 
term of years, the criminal's mental weakness being- the 
plea. But lie considered the prisoner his especial charge, 
and never lost sight of him. Such solace and instruction 
as Groom was capable of receiving were constantly giv- 
en, if not by the priest himself, then by his influence; 
and this protection was continued long after the wise, 
kind old man had passed away. 

Jeanne-Armande returned from Europe, and entered 
into happy possession of the half-house, as it stood, re- 
furnished by the lavish hand of Gregory Dexter. 

And Dexter ? During the last year of the war he went 
down to the front, on business connected with a pro- 
posed exchange of prisoners. Here, unexpectedly, one 
day he came upon Ward Heathcote, now in command of 
a regiment. 

Golonel Heathcote was not especially known beyond 
his own division; in it, he was considered a good officer, 
cool, determined, and if distinguished at all, distinguish- 
ed for rigidly obeying his orders, whatever they might 
be. It was related of him that once having been ordered 
to take his men up Little Reedy Run, when Big Reedy 
was plainly meant — Little Reedy, as everybody knew, 
being within the lines of the enemy, he calmly went up 
Little Reedy with his regiment. The enemy, startled 
by the sudden api^earance of seven hundred men among 
their seven thousand, supposed of course that seventy 
thousand must be behind, and retreated in haste, a mile 
or two, before they discovered their error. The seven 
hundred, meanwhile, being wildly recalled by a dozen 
messengers, came back, with much camp equipage and 
other booty, together with a few shot in their bodies, sent 
by the returning and indignant Gonfederates, one of the 
balls being in the shoulder of the calm colonel himself. 

When Dexter came upon Heathcote, a flush rose in his 
face. He did not hesitate, however, but walked directly 
up to the soldier. ' ' Will you step aside with me a mo- 
ment ?" he said. "I want to speak to you." 

Heathcote, too, had recognized his former companion 



ANNE. 537 

at a glance. The two men walked together beyond ear- 
shot; then they paused. 

But Dexter's fluency had deserted him. "You know ?" 
he said. 

"Yes." 

" It does not make it any better, I fear, to say that my 
belief was an honest one." 

"You were not alone; there were others who thought 
as you did. I care little about it now." 

"Still, I — I wish to beg your jmrdon," said Dexter, 
bringing out the words with an effort. Then, having ac- 
complished his task, he paused. "You are a more fortu- 
nate man than I am — than I have ever been," he added, 
gloomily. "But that does not lighten my mistake." 

"Think no more of it," answered Heathcote. "I as- 
sure you, it is to me a matter of not the slightest conse- 
quence." 

The words were double-edged, but Dexter bore them in 
silence. They shook hands, and separated, nor did they 
meet again for many years. 



Chapter XLI. 



" Love is strong as death. Many waters can not quench love, neither 
ean floods drown it." — The Proverbs of Solomon. 

The war was over at last ; peace was declared. The last 
review had been held, and the last volunteer had gone 
home. 

Two persons were standing on the old observatory floor, 
at the highest point of the island, looking at the little 
village below, the sparkling Straits, and the blue line of 
land in the distant north. At least Anne was looking at 
them. But her lover was looking at her. 

"It is enough to repay even the long silence of those 
long years," he said. 

And others might have agreed with him. For it was a 



1)38 ANNE. 

woman exquisitely and richly beautiful whom he held in 
his arms, wliose tremulous lips he kissed at his pleasure, 
until, forgetting the landscape, she turned to him with a 
clinging movement, and hid her face ujDon his breast. 
Her heart, her life, her being, were all his, and he knew 
it. She loved him intensely. 

"Something may be allowed to a starved man," he had 
said, the first time they were alone together after his ar- 
rival, his eyes dwellmg fondly on her sweet face. ' ' Do 
not be careful any more, Anne; show me that you love 
me. I have suffered, suffered, suffered, since those old 
days at Caryl's. " 

On this June afternoon they lingered on the height un- 
til the sun sank low in the west. 

"We must go. Ward." 

"Wait until it is out of sight." 

They waited in silence until the gold rim disappeared. 
Then they turned to each other. 

"Your last day alone; to-morrow you will be my wife. 
Do you remember when I asked you whether the whole 
world would not be well lost to us if we could but have 
love and each other ? We had love, but the rest was de- 
nied. Now we have that also. . . . Anne, I was, and am 
still, an idle, selfish fellow. Whatever change there has 
been or will be is owing to you. For you love me so 
much, my darling, that you exalt me, and I for very shame 
try to live up to it." 

He looked at her, and she saw the rare tears in his 
eyes. 

Then he brushed them away, smiled, and offered his 
arm. " Shall we go down now, Mrs. Heathcote ?" 

They were married the next morning in the little mili- 
tary chapel. Mrs. Rankin was at the fort again. Lieuten- 
ant Rankin bemg major and in command. The other 
poor wives who had been her companions there were 
widows now ; the battle-fields round Richmond were 
drawn with lines of fire upon their hearts forever. Mrs. 
Rankin, though but just arrived, left her household gods 
unpacked to decorate the chaiDel with wreaths of the early 
green. Miss Teller and Miss Lois, both in such excitement 



ANNE. 539 

that they spoke incoherently, yet seemed to understand 
each other nevertheless, superintended the preparations at 
the church-house. 

As a wedding gift, Gregory Dexter sent the same x)ack- 
age Anne had once returned to him ; the only addition 
was a star for the hair, set with diamonds. 

" I said that perhaps you would accept these some time" 
(lie wrote). "Will you accept them now? They were 
bought for you. It will give me pleasure to think that 
you are wearing them. I have no right to offer you a ring ; 
but the diamond, in some shape, I must give you, as the 
one imperishable stone. With unchanging regard, 

"Gregory Dexter." 

"You have no" objection?" said Anne, with a slight 
hesitation in her voice. 

' ' No, " answered Heathcote, carelessly ; " it would hurt 
him too much if we returned them. But what a heavily 
gorgeous taste he has ! Diamonds, sables, and an India 
shawl !" 

He had never been jealous of Dexter. Why should 
he be jealous now ? 

The new chaplain read the marriage service, but Pere 
Michaux gave the bride away. Not only the whole vil- 
lage was present, but the whole water parish also, if not 
within the chapel, then without. People had begun to 
cross from the mainland and islands at dawn, so as to be 
in time ; the Straits were covered by a small fleet. Miss 
Teller was the only stranger, save the bridegroom him- 
self. 

Anne Avas dressed simply in soft white ; she wore no or- 
naments. Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote would not be rich ; on 
the contrary, they would begin their married life with a 
straitened income, that is, in worldly wealth. In youth, 
beauty, and a love so great that it could not be measured 
in words, the bridegroom was richer than the proudest 
king. As for the bride, one look in her eyes was enough. 

"I, Anne, take thee, Ward, to my wedded husband, to 
hare and to hold, from this day forward, for better for 



540 ANNE. 

worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, 
to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, ac- 
cording to God's holy ordinance ; and thereto I give thee 
my troth." 

"Anne," said Miss Teller, drawing the new-made wife 
aside, " I want to whisper something. I will not tell 
Ward — men are different. But I want you to know that 
Helen's grave is covered with heliotrope in Greenwood 
this morning, and that I am sure she knows all, and is 
glad." 

THE END, 



3477-9 



